William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

William Shakespeare Poems

81. Sonnet Vi 5/21/2001
82. Sonnets Iv 1/4/2003
83. Sonnets Xiii 1/4/2003
84. Sonnet Xxxv 5/21/2001
85. Sonnet Cxxxiii 5/18/2001
86. Sonnet Lv 5/21/2001
87. Sonnet Lxxiv 12/31/2002
88. Sonnet Xlvii 5/21/2001
89. Sonnet Lxxxiv 5/21/2001
90. Sonnet Xlvi 5/21/2001
91. Sonnet Xxvi 5/21/2001
92. Sonnet Cxxxv 5/18/2001
93. Sonnet Iv: Unthrifty Loveliness, Why Dost Thou Spend 1/3/2003
94. Sonnets Xi 1/4/2003
95. Sonnets Xviii 1/4/2003
96. Sonnet Xix: Devouring Time, Blunt Thou The Lion's Paws 1/3/2003
97. Sonnets Viii 1/4/2003
98. Sonnet Xcvii 5/21/2001
99. Sonnet Xxviii 5/21/2001
100. Sonnets Cxlvi: Poor Soul, The Centre Of My Sinful Earth 1/1/2004
101. The Passionate Pilgrim 3/29/2010
102. Sonnet Lx 5/21/2001
103. Sonnet Xvi 5/21/2001
104. Sonnet Cxxxviii 5/18/2001
105. Sonnet Lxvi 5/21/2001
106. Sonnets Ii 1/4/2003
107. Sonnets Xxxiii: Full Many A Glorious Morning Have I Seen 1/1/2004
108. Sonnet 38: 3/30/2010
109. Sonnet Xxi 5/21/2001
110. Sonnet Ix 5/21/2001
111. Sonnet Xx 12/31/2002
112. Sonnet 84: Who Is It That Says Most, Which Can Say More 3/30/2010
113. Sonnet Xxxi 5/21/2001
114. Sonnet Cxxxvi 5/18/2001
115. Sonnet Cxxxii 5/18/2001
116. Sonnet Lxxvii 12/31/2002
117. Sonnets I 1/4/2003
118. Sonnets Xvii 1/4/2003
119. Sonnets Xix 1/4/2003
120. Now The Hungry Lion Roars 3/2/2015
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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