William Shakespeare

(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616 / Warwickshire)

William Shakespeare Poems

121. Sonnet Lxxvii 12/31/2002
122. Sonnet Lxxvi 12/31/2002
123. Sonnet Lxxv 12/31/2002
124. Sonnet Lxxix 12/31/2002
125. Sonnet Lxxiv 12/31/2002
126. Sonnet Lxxiii 12/31/2002
127. Sonnet Lxxii 12/31/2002
128. Sonnet Lxxi 12/31/2002
129. Sonnet Lxx 12/31/2002
130. Sonnet Lxvi 5/21/2001
131. Sonnet Lxv 5/21/2001
132. Sonnet Lxix 5/21/2001
133. Sonnet Lxiv: When I Have Seen By Time's Fell Hand Defac'D 1/3/2003
134. Sonnet Lxiii 5/21/2001
135. Sonnet Lxii 5/21/2001
136. Sonnet Lxi 5/21/2001
137. Sonnet Lx 5/21/2001
138. Sonnet Lviii 5/21/2001
139. Sonnet Lvii 5/21/2001
140. Sonnet Lvi 5/21/2001
141. Sonnet Lv 5/21/2001
142. Sonnet Lix 5/21/2001
143. Sonnet Liii 5/21/2001
144. Sonnet Lii 5/21/2001
145. Sonnet Li 5/21/2001
146. Sonnet L 5/21/2001
147. Sonnet Ix 5/21/2001
148. Sonnet Iv: Unthrifty Loveliness, Why Dost Thou Spend 1/3/2003
149. Sonnet Iii: Look In Thy Glass, And Tell The Face Thou Viewest 1/3/2003
150. Sonnet Ii: When Forty Winters Shall Besiege Thy Brow 1/3/2003
151. Sonnet I: From Fairest Creatures We Desire Increase 1/3/2003
152. Sonnet Cxxxviii 5/18/2001
153. Sonnet Cxxxvii 5/18/2001
154. Sonnet Cxxxvi 5/18/2001
155. Sonnet Cxxxv 5/18/2001
156. Sonnet Cxxxix 5/18/2001
157. Sonnet Cxxxiv 5/18/2001
158. Sonnet Cxxxiii 5/18/2001
159. Sonnet Cxxxii 5/18/2001
160. Sonnet Cxxxi 5/18/2001
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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