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Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage Thy merit hath my duty strongly knit; To thee I send this written embassage To witness duty, not to show my wit. Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it; But that

Let those who are in favour with their stars

Mine eye hath played the painter

As an unperfect actor on the stage

My glass shall not persuade me I am old

So is it not with me as with that muse,

A woman's face with Nature's

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,

Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws,

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Who will believe my verse in

But wherefore do not you a mightier way

Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,

In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,

Love is too young to know what conscience is;

O, from what power hast thou

When I consider every thing that grow

When I consider everything that grows

Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,

O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,

Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

Those lips that Love's own hand did make

Two loves I have, of comfort

Lo, as a careful huswife runs to catch

Love is my sin, and thy dear

In faith, I do not love the

Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,

O, call not me to justify the wrong

When my love swears that she is made of truth

Thou blind fool, Love, what dost

If thy soul check thee that I come so near,

Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,

So, now I have confessed that he is thine,

Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan

Thine eyes I love, and they,

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,

My mistress' eyes are nothing like

O, that you were your self! But,

Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame

How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power

Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.

Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain

'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,

That you were once unkind befriends me now,

When I do count the clock that

What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,

Like as to make our appetite more keen

Let me not to the marriage of true minds

Those lines that I before have writ do lie,

Or whether doth my mind, being

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,

Your love and pity doth th' impression fill

O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,

Alas, 'tis true, I have

As fast as thou shalt wane,

O, never say that I was false of heart,

What's in the brain that ink may characte

Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul

When in the chronicle of wasted time

Let not my love be called idolatry,

To me, fair friend, you never

Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,

My love is strengthened, though

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long

For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any

From fairest creatures we desire increase,

Double, double toil and trouble;

O, how much more doth beaut

Marcellus to Horatio and Bernardo, after seeing the Ghost,

WHO is Silvia? What is she? That all our swains

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Orpheus with his lute made trees,

ORPHEUS with his lute made trees

O never say that I was false of heart

Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,

NOW the hungry lion roars,

Not marble nor the gilded monuments

Not from the stars do I my judgment pluck,

Three witches, casting a spell .

TELL me where is Fancy bred,

Farewell!--God knows when we shall meet again.

IT was a lover and his lass

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie

Hark! hark! the lark at

Full fathom five thy father lies

But, lo! from forth a copse that

Her lily hand her rosy cheek lies under,

COME unto these yellow sands,

YOU spotted snakes with double tongue,

OVER hill, over dale,

URNS and odours bring away!

COME away, come away, death,

ROSES, their sharp spines being gone

Blow, blow, thou winter wind

Fear no more the heat o' the sun;

O mistress mine, where are you roaming?

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

All The World's A Stage - Poem by William Shakespeare

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William Shakespeare

Born Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire, England

Baptised 26 April 1564

Died 23 April 1616 (aged 52) Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire, England

William Shakespeare 26 April 1564 (baptised) – 23 April 1616) was an English poet, playwright, and actor, widely regarded as the greatest writer in the English language and the world's pre-eminent dramatist. He is often called England's national poet, and the "Bard of Avon". His extant works, including collaborations, consist of approximately 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems, and a few other verses, some of uncertain authorship. His plays have been translated into every major living language and are performed more often than those of any other playwright.

Shakespeare was born and brought up in Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwickshire. At the age of 18, he married Anne Hathaway, with whom he had three children: Susanna, and twins Hamnet and Judith. Sometime between 1585 and 1592, he began a successful career in London as an actor, writer, and part-owner of a playing company called the Lord Chamberlain's Men, later known as the King's Men. He appears to have retired to Stratford around 1613, at age 49, where he died three years later. Few records of Shakespeare's private life survive, which has stimulated considerable speculation about such matters as his physical appearance, sexuality, and religious beliefs and whether the works attributed to him were written by others.

Shakespeare produced most of his known work between 1589 and 1613. His early plays were primarily comedies and histories, which are regarded as some of the best work ever produced in these genres. He then wrote mainly tragedies until about 1608, including Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, and Macbeth, considered some of the finest works in the English language. In his last phase, he wrote tragicomedies, also known as romances, and collaborated with other playwrights.

Many of his plays were published in editions of varying quality and accuracy during his lifetime. In 1623, however, John Heminges and Henry Condell, two friends and fellow actors of Shakespeare, published a more definitive text known as the First Folio, a posthumous collected edition of his dramatic works that included all but two of the plays now recognised as Shakespeare's. It was prefaced with a poem by Ben Jonson, in which Shakespeare is hailed, presciently, as "not of an age, but for all time".

In the 20th and 21st centuries, his works have been repeatedly adapted and rediscovered by new movements in scholarship and performance. His plays remain highly popular and are constantly studied, performed, and reinterpreted in diverse cultural and political contexts throughout the world.