William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

poet William Shakespeare
#2 on top 500 poets

Comments about William Shakespeare

  • Jeff’s (10/18/2018 9:44:00 PM)

    Looooooooooooooooool

    0 person liked.
    		0 person did not like.
  • dave cabuquid (10/11/2018 9:53:00 PM)

    plaese give me written poem

    2 person liked.
    		5 person did not like.
  • Shanana (10/9/2018 10:12:00 AM)

    Plz give me written poem

    1 person liked.
    		7 person did not like.
  • Aanya (10/8/2018 10:20:00 AM)

    I luv William Shakespeare’s poems

    5 person liked.
    		7 person did not like.
  • Notencia (10/5/2018 2:34:00 PM)

    My favourite author🌷

    3 person liked.
    		11 person did not like.
  • squidward (10/3/2018 1:08:00 AM)

    he looks like my cousin

    7 person liked.
    		8 person did not like.
  • big simon (9/26/2018 7:47:00 AM)

    get @ the snap - @joshthompson997

    6 person liked.
    		8 person did not like.
  • I like potato (9/20/2018 3:42:00 AM)

    William Shakespeare like William shak my

    9 person liked.
    		7 person did not like.
  • Banana boy (9/17/2018 10:22:00 AM)

    You love him

    7 person liked.
    		7 person did not like.
  • mrinal caturvedi (9/11/2018 5:42:00 AM)

    the best ever.miss him! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

    10 person liked.
    		7 person did not like.
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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 Ci

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse: wilt thou not haply say
'Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix'd;
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd?'
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?

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