William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

William Shakespeare Poems

401. Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? (Sonnet 18) 1/20/2003
402. A Fairy Song 1/3/2003
403. All The World's A Stage 1/20/2003

Comments about William Shakespeare

  • AARIF WANI (12/8/2017 11:10:00 PM)

    I LIKE POEMS

    11 person liked.
    5 person did not like.
  • i cant believe it''s not butter (12/8/2017 1:04:00 PM)

    ugg unicorns and butter plus bo boo

  • troll face (12/7/2017 6:23:00 AM)

    boringgggggg ahhhhhhhhh

  • bobbbbyyyy (12/7/2017 6:22:00 AM)

    this was an amazing article thank you

  • john cena (12/4/2017 5:39:00 PM)

    lol bad i hate it kys willi vfttcuctcrt

  • troll face (12/4/2017 5:38:00 PM)

    lol bad i hate it kys willi

  • john cena (12/4/2017 5:35:00 PM)

    boring af: /jbhjhbjnbhj n b hhbbhhbjbhjbhj hj

  • Pynthamil Pavendan (12/3/2017 8:35:00 AM)

    What a talent

  • mac stiles (11/28/2017 9:58:00 AM)

    he is one of the best people who lived in this world and I wished he was immoral always and everyone else too

  • Ashutosh (11/28/2017 4:16:00 AM)

    You are like a superpower to me.
    The world can't see and I don't want to show.
    I live parallely in two universe.
    The one I show
    The another we see.
    It may has shattered me into pieces
    But that is where I find my species.

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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