William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

William Shakespeare Poems

281. Sonnet Lxxv 12/31/2002
282. Sonnet Lxxvi 12/31/2002
283. Sonnet Lxxvii 12/31/2002
284. Sonnet Lxxviii 5/21/2001
285. Sonnet Lxxx 5/21/2001
286. Sonnet Lxxxi 5/21/2001
287. Sonnet Lxxxii 5/21/2001
288. Sonnet Lxxxiii 5/21/2001
289. Sonnet Lxxxiv 5/21/2001
290. Sonnet Lxxxix 5/21/2001
291. Sonnet Lxxxv 5/21/2001
292. Sonnet Lxxxvi 5/21/2001
293. Sonnet Lxxxvii 5/21/2001
294. Sonnet Lxxxviii 5/21/2001
295. Sonnet V: Those Hours, That With Gentle Work Did Frame 1/3/2003
296. Sonnet Vi 5/21/2001
297. Sonnet Vii 5/21/2001
298. Sonnet Viii 5/21/2001
299. Sonnet X 5/21/2001
300. Sonnet Xc 5/21/2001
301. Sonnet Xci 5/21/2001
302. Sonnet Xciii 5/21/2001
303. Sonnet Xciv: They That Have Power To Hurt And Will Do None 1/3/2003
304. Sonnet Xcix 5/21/2001
305. Sonnet Xcv 5/21/2001
306. Sonnet Xcvi 5/21/2001
307. Sonnet Xcvii 5/21/2001
308. Sonnet Xcviii 5/21/2001
309. Sonnet Xi 5/21/2001
310. Sonnet Xii 5/21/2001
311. Sonnet Xiii 5/21/2001
312. Sonnet Xiv 5/21/2001
313. Sonnet Xix: Devouring Time, Blunt Thou The Lion's Paws 1/3/2003
314. Sonnet Xl 5/21/2001
315. Sonnet Xli 5/21/2001
316. Sonnet Xlii 5/21/2001
317. Sonnet Xliii 5/21/2001
318. Sonnet Xliv 5/21/2001
319. Sonnet Xlix 5/21/2001
320. Sonnet Xlv 5/21/2001
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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