William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

William Shakespeare Poems

Comments about William Shakespeare

  • how it feels to chew 5 gum (11/1/2018 2:46:00 PM)

    ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! 5 gum stimulate ur senses

    9 person liked.
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  • Deez Nutz (10/30/2018 5:57:00 PM)

    No! Cuz something came in the mail today. DEEZ NUTS! HA! GOT EEM!

    6 person liked.
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  • jojnn (10/30/2018 10:33:00 AM)

    jnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn

    3 person liked.
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  • lolllllllol (10/26/2018 7:06:00 AM)

    WILLIAM MA BOI

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  • Gwynneth (10/22/2018 4:50:00 PM)

    To be or not to be, that is the question...

    5 person liked.
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  • Patricia Lee (10/22/2018 4:49:00 PM)

    is empty, and the devils are here...

    3 person liked.
    9 person did not like.
  • Jeff’s (10/18/2018 9:44:00 PM)

    Looooooooooooooooool

    4 person liked.
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  • dave cabuquid (10/11/2018 9:53:00 PM)

    plaese give me written poem

    5 person liked.
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  • Shanana (10/9/2018 10:12:00 AM)

    Plz give me written poem

    3 person liked.
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  • Aanya (10/8/2018 10:20:00 AM)

    I luv William Shakespeare’s poems

    7 person liked.
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Best Poem of William Shakespeare

Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? (Sonnet 18)

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
So long as men can breathe, or ...

Read the full of Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer's Day? (Sonnet 18)

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,

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