William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

Comments about William Shakespeare

  • Vineet Chhikara Vineet Chhikara (5/27/2013 1:36:00 AM)

    Have a look at my poems... and rate them... i am sure you will like them.... :)

    58 person liked.
    85 person did not like.
  • Lea Ashlay (5/23/2013 4:57:00 PM)

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  • The Doctor (3/12/2013 9:16:00 PM)

    This human is amazing! I mean have you ever met someone like Shakespeare? Great range of vocabulary and very flirty with my companion. However! He is very brilliant!

  • Prasanta Kumar Bhol (3/4/2013 12:31:00 AM)

    shakespear's Quotations is the best........................................................ ..................................

  • Moksha Sharma (3/2/2013 12:14:00 AM)

    Shakespeare was one of the best poets.....His poems are great...

  • Mikaylee Wisecarver (1/27/2013 10:14:00 PM)

    shakespeare was the best poem writer who ever lived and i love his love poems

  • Shuraih Saquari (1/26/2013 5:32:00 AM)

    life is a glass. Carely accept if no that will broke'

  • Debasish Mridha, M. D. (1/21/2013 8:36:00 PM)

    Shakespeare is living today
    more than when he was alive
    not in his body or in his time
    but in our heart and in our mind.

  • Lilith Margret (11/20/2012 10:26:00 PM)

    William Shakespeare is brilliant!

  • Simon Morrison (9/1/2012 3:22:00 PM)

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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 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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