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

  • jeff 212121 (3/4/2018 4:01:00 AM)

    i like bob on treehgfvr7dddddddrrrrrrrrrtuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuutf

    9 person liked.
    16 person did not like.
  • Alexander rose (3/2/2018 3:23:00 PM)

    I love it you other guys are stupid as fuck

  • nyomi dixon (2/28/2018 12:43:00 PM)

    the fairy song didn't make any sense but i liked it anyway plus i'm doing a poem on it in class today and by doing a poem on it i mean copy it on a piece of paper, read it to my class then give it to my teacher.

  • anuradha (2/25/2018 3:08:00 AM)

    please accept me the way i am, i am, who i am, i may not be a person, you wants me to be, i may not do the things you wants me to do

  • Kundan Singh (2/24/2018 8:50:00 PM)


  • aaaaa at the gay (2/22/2018 4:13:00 PM)


  • Daddy (2/21/2018 11:52:00 AM)


  • JACK 2018 (2/20/2018 3:12:00 PM)

    William shakespeare's poetry was loved by everyone in those days and it still is...

  • ILUMINATI (2/20/2018 8:44:00 AM)

    CONFORMED! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

  • LUICIUS MALFOY (2/20/2018 8:42:00 AM)

    VOLDERMORT IS DEAD! ! ! ! ! ! !

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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