William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

William Shakespeare Poems

201. Twelve O'Clock - Fairy Time 3/29/2010
202. Sonnet Cxxii 5/18/2001
203. Sonnet 70: That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect 1/13/2003
204. Sonnet 26: Lord Of My Love, To Whom In Vassalage… 3/30/2010
205. Sonnet Cx 5/18/2001
206. Sonnet 32: If Thou Survive My Well-Contented Day 1/13/2003
207. Sonnet 38: How Can My Muse Want Subject To Invent 1/13/2003
208. Sonnet Cxli 5/18/2001
209. Sonnet Cxviii 5/18/2001
210. Sonnet Cv 5/18/2001
211. Sonnet Cxvi 5/18/2001
212. Sonnet 81: Or I Shall Live Your Epitaph To Make 1/13/2003
213. Sonnet Ciii 5/18/2001
214. Sonnet Cxlii 5/18/2001
215. Sonnet 36: Let Me Confess That We Two Must Be Twain 1/13/2003
216. Sonnet Cxliii 5/18/2001
217. Sonnet 107: 3/30/2010
218. Sonnet 135: Whoever Hath Her Wish, Thou Hast Thy Will 1/13/2003
219. Sonnet 53: What Is Your Substance, Whereof Are You Made 1/13/2003
220. Sonnet Cl 5/18/2001
221. Sonnet 39: O, How Thy Worth With Manners May I Sing 1/13/2003
222. Sonnet 51: Thus Can My Love Excuse The Slow Offence 1/13/2003
223. Sonnet Cix 5/18/2001
224. Sonnet 63: Against My Love Shall Be, As I Am Now 1/13/2003
225. Sonnet 34: Why Didst Thou Promise Such A Beauteous Day 1/13/2003
226. Sonnet Cvii: Not Mine Own Fears, Nor The Prophetic Soul 1/3/2003
227. Sonnet 76: Why Is My Verse So Barren Of New Pride? 1/13/2003
228. Sonnet Cxv 5/18/2001
229. Sonnet 78: So Oft Have I Invoked Thee For My Muse 1/13/2003
230. Sonnet Cviii 5/18/2001
231. Sonnet 54: O, How Much More Doth Beauty Beauteous Seem 1/13/2003
232. Sonnet Cxlvi 12/31/2002
233. Sonnet 6: Then Let Not Winter's Ragged Hand Deface 1/13/2003
234. Sonnet Cxix 5/18/2001
235. Sonnet 9: Is It For Fear To Wet A Widow's Eye 1/13/2003
236. Sonnet Cxxi 5/18/2001
237. Sonnet 37: As A Decrepit Father Takes Delight 1/13/2003
238. Sonnet Cxlv 5/18/2001
239. Sonnet 85: My Tongue-Tied Muse In Manners Holds Her Still 1/13/2003
240. Sonnet 134: So, Now I Have Confessed That He Is Thine 1/13/2003
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,

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