William Shakespeare

Author of An Excellent conceited Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet and 190+ Books

William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare


William Shakespeare (baptized April 26, 1564) was an English poet and playwright, widely considered to be the greatest writer in English and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. His surviving works consist of 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and several other poems, often referred to as England's national poet and the "Bard of Avon" (or simply "The Bard"). His plays were translated into every major living language and performed more... frequently than any other playwright. Shakespeare was born and raised in Stratford-upon-Avon. Scholars believe he died on his fifty-second birthday, coinciding with St. George's Day. He married Anne Hathaway at the age of 18, who bore him three children: Susanna, and Hamnet and Judith twins. Between 1585 and 1592 he began a successful career in London as an actor, writer and part owner of the Lord Chamberlains Men playing company, later known as the Kings Men. He seems to have retired to Stratford around 1613, where he died three years later. Few records of Shakespeare's private life survive, and there was considerable speculation on such subjects as his sexuality, religious beliefs, and whether the works attributed to him were written by others. Shakespeare produced most of his well-known work between 1590 and 1613. His early plays were primarily comedies and histories, genres which he raised to the peak of sophistication and art. Next he wrote mostly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of English's finest examples. He wrote tragicomedies in his last phase, also known as romances, and worked with other playwrights. Many of his plays were published during his lifetime in editions of varying quality and accuracy, and in 1623 two of his former theatrical colleagues published First Folio, a collected edition of his dramatic works that included all but two of the plays now recognized as Shakespeares. Shakespeare was a respected poet and playwright in his own day, but his reputation did not rise to his present day. In particular, the Romantics hailed Shakespeare's genius, and the Victorians hailed Shakespeare with a reverence that George Bernard Shaw called "bardolatry." His work was repeatedly adopted and rediscovered in the twentieth century by new movements in scholarship and performance. His plays continue to be highly popular today and are consistently performed and reinterpreted throughout the world in various cultural and political contexts. Shakespeare wrote 37 plays and 154 sonnets throughout his lifetime, according to historians. Shakespeare's writing average was 1.5 plays a year since he began writing in 1589. The great master of language and literature did not authentically write plays and sonnets attributed to Shakespeare.READ MORE

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My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.

The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.

Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.

All's well that ends well.

No, no, I am but shadow of myself:
You are deceived, my substance is not here;

When heaven doth weep, doth not the earth o'erflow?
If the winds rage, doth not the sea wax mad,
Threatening the welking with his big-swoln face?
And wilt though have a reason for this coil?
I am the sea; hark, how her sighs do blow!
She is the weeping welkin, I the earth:
Then must my sea be moved with her sighs;
Then must my earth with her continual tears
Become a deluge, overflow'd and drown'd;
For why my bowels cannot hide her woes,
But like a drunkard must I vomit them.
Then give me leave, for losers will have leave
To ease their stomachs with their bitter tongues.

agar vaght ra talaf konid zamani fara miresad ke vaght shoma ra talaf mikonad.

And this our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything. I would not change it.

Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.

A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with light weight of pain,
As much or more we should ourselves complain.

Beware the ides of March.

His life was gentle; and the elements
So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up
And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

Lord Polonius: What do you read, my lord?
Hamlet: Words, words, words.
Lord Polonius: What is the matter, my lord?
Hamlet: Between who?
Lord Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.

Thou hast nor youth nor age
But as it were an after dinner sleep
Dreaming of both.

Cowards die many times before their deaths;
The valiant never taste of death but once.
Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,
It seems to me most strange that men should fear;
Seeing that death, a necessary end,
Will come when it will come.

Sweet are the uses of adversity
Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father refuse thy name, thou art thyself thou not a montegue, what is montegue? tis nor hand nor foot nor any other part belonging to a man
What is in a name?
That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,
So Romeo would were he not Romeo called retain such dear perfection to which he owes without that title,
Romeo, Doth thy name!
And for that name which is no part of thee, take all thyself.

I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions; fed with the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject to the same diseases,
heal'd by the same means, warm'd and cool'd by the same winter and summer, as a Christian is?
If you prick us, do we not bleed? If
you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?
And if you wrong us, do we not revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will resemble you in that.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triump die, like fire and powder
Which, as they kiss, consume

Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.

Do wrong   Love   Trust   Wrong

By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.

O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright
It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night
Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear;
Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.
- Romeo -

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages.

To sue to live, I find I seek to die;
And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.

If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.

There is a willow grows aslant the brook that shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; therewith fantastic garlands did she make of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples that the liberal shepherds give a grosser name, but our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them. There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds clamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke; when down her weedy trophies and herself fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide and, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up; which time she chanted snatches of old lauds, as one incapable of her own distress, or like a creature native and indued unto that element; but long it could not be till that her garments, heavy with their drink, pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay to muddy death.

They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.

Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.

You are thought here to the most senseless and fit man for the job.

You speak an infinite deal of nothing.

Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.

a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.

When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.

Death   Light   Stars

And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,
The instruments of darkness tell us truths,
Win us with honest trifles, to betray's
In deepest consequence

I dare do all that may become a man;
Who dares do more, is none

Dare   Macbeth   Man

I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring barque,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.

Where's the king?
Contending with the fretful elements;
Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,
Or swell the curled waters 'bove the main,
That things might change or cease; tears his white hair,
Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,
Catch in their fury and make nothing of;
Strives in his little world of man to outscorn
The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.
This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,
The lion and the belly-pinched wolf
Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,
And bids what will take all.

The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.

There is a tide in the affairs of men
which, taken at the floud, leads on to fortune
ommitted, all the voyage of their lives
are bound in shallows and in miseries

Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?"
Malvolio: "Fool, there was never a man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art."
Feste: "But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in you wits than a fool.

But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds [vows] disgraced them."
Viola: "Thy reason, man?"
Feste: "Troth [Truthfully], sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loathe to prove reason with them.

An old black ram is tupping your white ewe

Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion

Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.


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