William Shakespeare
(1564-1616)
1. He was a famous English playwright / the greatest writer and poet ever known in the English language / he wrote poems, drama and sonnets /
2. He wrote :
TRAGEDIES | HISTORIES | COMEDIES |
Antony and Cleopatra | King Henry IV Part 1 | All’s Well That Ends Well |
Coriolanus | King Henry IV Part 2 | As You Like It |
Hamlet | King Henry V | Comedy of Errors |
Julius Caesar | King Henry VI Part 1 | Cymbeline |
King Lear | King Henry VI Part 2 | Love’s Labour’s Lost |
Macbeth | King Henry VI Part 3 | Measure for Measure |
Othello | King Henry VIII | Merchant of Venice |
Romeo and Juliet | King John | Merry Wives of Windsor |
Timons of Athens | Richard II | Midsummer Night’s Dream |
Titus Andronicus | Richard III | Much Ado About Nothing |
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| Pericles, Prince Of Tyre |
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| Taming of the Shrew |
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| Tempest |
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| Troilus and Cressida |
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| Twelfth Night |
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| Two Gentlemen of Verona |
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| Winter’s Tale |
Have you read some of these plays? Which one do you prefer? Feel free to leave a comment
To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause: there's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscover'd country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action. - Soft you now! The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons Be all my sins remember'd.