William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

Comments about William Shakespeare

  • Ibrahim B . y (12/15/2015 7:38:00 AM)

    "faint heart never won fair lady "

    88 person liked.
    95 person did not like.
  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (12/10/2015 11:23:00 AM)

    'No legacy is so rich as honesty. '
    (All's Well that Ends Well, Act 3, Scene 5)

    'Nessuna eredità è cosi' ricca come l'onesta.'

  • Fabrizio Frosini Fabrizio Frosini (12/10/2015 11:19:00 AM)

    'Cowards die many times
    before their deaths;
    The valiant never taste
    of death but once.'
    ('Julius Caesar', II,4)

    ''I codardi muoiono molte
    volte prima delle loro morti;
    il valoroso assaggia la
    morte solo una volta.''

  • Emeka Ajih Emeka Ajih (11/29/2015 8:45:00 AM)

    He is a True Great

  • Emeka Ajih Emeka Ajih (11/29/2015 8:45:00 AM)

    He is a True Great

  • mahmud muhammad (11/12/2015 3:42:00 AM)

    i believe william shakespear is the best poet and dramatist.

  • Anton K Anton K (11/5/2015 3:03:00 PM)

    Unbeatable. Unsurpassed. So human in spirit, so inhuman in skill.

  • rakesh vishwakarma (8/31/2015 7:31:00 AM)

    I have short information about this great poet. However, he is graetest.

  • Rafiqul Islam (8/9/2015 12:28:00 PM)

    Most favourite

  • sowmyasmeen nidabitha (7/15/2015 2:38:00 AM)

    Great poet

Best Poem of William Shakespeare

All The World's A Stage

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. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in ...

Read the full of All The World's A Stage

Sonnet Cviii

What's in the brain that ink may character
Which hath not figured to thee my true spirit?
What's new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thy dear merit?
Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must, each day say o'er the very same,
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case

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