William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

William Shakespeare Poems

401. A Fairy Song 1/3/2003
402. Fear No More 1/3/2003
403. All The World's A Stage 1/20/2003

Comments about William Shakespeare

  • the wizard of wizardry (4/5/2018 1:23:00 AM)

    abra kadabra alakazam
    both of your nipples are now made of ham

    12 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
  • Labradoodlelover (3/29/2018 3:47:00 PM)

    LOVE 10/10 LOVE

  • Irshad faiz ul fatah (3/29/2018 5:56:00 AM)

    I love this all poet

  • eiju geyan tarageda (3/25/2018 4:11:00 AM)

    i love it

  • I am WIlcat (3/21/2018 10:23:00 AM)

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  • Someone (3/21/2018 10:20:00 AM)

    (/•O•) / ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh baby a triple

  • Keira Freckelton (3/17/2018 8:08:00 AM)

    I love this so much

  • Joshua Adeyemi Joshua Adeyemi (3/4/2018 8:03:00 AM)

    Shakspear is not a poet:
    But himself a poem.

  • jeff 212121 (3/4/2018 4:01:00 AM)

    i like bob on treehgfvr7dddddddrrrrrrrrrtuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutf

  • Alexander rose (3/2/2018 3:23:00 PM)

    I love it you other guys are stupid as fuck

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 Li

Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Of my dull bearer when from thee I speed:
From where thou art why should I haste me thence?
Till I return, of posting is no need.
O, what excuse will my poor beast then find,
When swift extremity can seem but slow?
Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind;
In winged speed no motion shall I know:
Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;

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