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

  • i cant believe it''s not butter (12/8/2017 1:04:00 PM)

    ugg unicorns and butter plus bo boo

    10 person liked.
    4 person did not like.
  • 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.

  • aaron (11/27/2017 5:33:00 AM)

    i love this poet he is the best

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 Lxvi

Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
As, to behold desert a beggar born,
And needy nothing trimm'd in jollity,
And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
And guilded honour shamefully misplaced,
And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
And strength by limping sway disabled,
And art made tongue-tied by authority,

[Report Error]