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

  • Phil the corn dog guy (1/23/2018 3:23:00 PM)

    Sure kid now to get the corn dog just step in this van

    8 person liked.
    10 person did not like.
  • Jimmy the short kid (1/23/2018 3:22:00 PM)

    Can it be extra extra dry with mustard?

  • Phil the corn dog guy (1/23/2018 3:22:00 PM)

    $23,000,000 for one corndog, extra dry

  • Jimmy the short kid (1/23/2018 3:21:00 PM)

    How much for a corndog

  • Phil the corn dog guy (1/23/2018 3:20:00 PM)

    Anyone want a corn dog

  • kysBleach (1/22/2018 12:07:00 PM)


  • Joe Thomson (1/22/2018 8:12:00 AM)

    Of as good as mine

  • qwerty (1/21/2018 10:52:00 AM)

    cite please? - - - - - - - - - - - - -

  • Goethe (1/20/2018 3:21:00 PM)

    Not as good as my poems 😤

  • Allan Lazarus (1/18/2018 2:34:00 PM)

    If I were Shakespeare I would say
    Spell my name another way
    Spell it Shakispeir spelll it

    If I were Sheakespeare I would say
    Stop spelling it another way
    Don't spell it Sheikspears
    Sheakspere or many others
    That I abore
    Spell it right I say
    Not the wrong way

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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