William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)

William Shakespeare was born in 1564 and died 1616. Called 'The Bard of Avon', this English poet and playwright wrote over 100 Sonnets and a number of immortal plays.

The poems are by default sorted according to volume, but you can also choose to sort them alphabetically or by page views.

First Line	Comments
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted	2 Comments
Accuse me thus: that I have scanted all
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
Against that time, if ever that time come,
Ah, wherefore with infection should he live,
Alack, what poverty my Muse brings forth,
Alas, 'tis true, I have gone here and there,
As a decrepit father takes delight
As an unperfect actor on the stage
As fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow'st
Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press
Being your slave, what should I do but tend
Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
But be contented when that fell arrest
But do thy worst to steal thy self away,
But wherefore do not you a mightier way
Canst thou, O cruel, say I love thee not,
Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,
Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws,
Even as the sun with purple-coloured face	1 Comment
Farewell! Thou art too dear for my possessing,
For shame, deny that thou bear'st love to any
From fairest creatures we desire increase,
From you have I been absent in the spring,
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
How can I then return in happy plight
How can my Muse want subject to invent
How careful was I, when I took my way,
How heavy do I journey on the way,
How like a winter hath my absence been
How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st,
How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame
I grant thou wert not married to my Muse,
I never saw that you did painting need,
If my dear love were but the child of state,
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
If there be nothing new, but that which is
If thou survive my well-contented day
If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes,	2 Comments
In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,
In the old age black was not counted fair,
Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
Is it thy will thy image should keep open
Let me confess that we two must be twain,
Let me not to the marriage of true minds	1 Comment
Let not my love be called idolatry,
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
Like as to make our appetite more keen
Lo, as a careful huswife runs to catch
Lo, in the orient when the gracious light
Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,
Love is too young to know what conscience is;
Mine eye and heart are at a mortal war
Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?
My glass shall not persuade me I am old
My love is as a fever, longing still
My love is strengthened, though more weak in seeming;
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;	7 Comments
My tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,
No longer mourn for me when I am dead
No more be grieved at that which thou hast done.
No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck,
Not marble, nor the gilded monuments	2 Comments
Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul
O me! what eyes hath love put in my head,
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends
O, call not me to justify the wrong
O, for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
O, from what power hast thou this powerful might
O, how I faint when I of you do write,
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
O, how thy worth with manners may I sing,
O, lest the world should task you to recite
O, never say that I was false of heart,
O, that you were your self! But, love, you are	1 Comment
Or I shall live your epitaph to make,
Or whether doth my mind, being crowned with you,
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,
Say that thou didst forsake me for some fault,
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?	6 Comments
Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,	3 Comments
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,	1 Comment
Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
So am I as the rich whose blessèd key
So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
So is it not with me as with that muse,
So oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,
So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
So, now I have confessed that he is thine,
Some glory in their birth, some in their skill,	2 Comments
Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;
Sweet love, renew thy force! Be it not said
Take all my loves, my love, yea, take them all;
That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect,
That thou hast her, it is not all my grief,	1 Comment
That time of year thou mayst in me behold,	1 Comment
That you were once unkind befriends me now,
The forward violet thus did I chide:
The little love god lying once asleep
The other two, slight air and purging fire,
Then hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;
Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
They that have power to hurt and will do none,	1 Comment
Thine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view
Those pretty wrongs that liberty commits	1 Comment
Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
Thou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes
Thus can my love excuse the slow offence
Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn,
Thy bosom is endearèd with all hearts,
Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame	1 Comment
Tired with all these, for restful death I cry,
To me, fair friend, you never can be old,	1 Comment
Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
Unthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spend
Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
Were't aught to me I bore the canopy,
What is your substance, whereof are you made,
What potions have I drunk of Siren tears,
What's in the brain that ink may character
When forty winters shall besiege thy brow,
When I consider every thing that grows
When I do count the clock that tells the time,
When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
When in the chronicle of wasted time
When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,
When my love swears that she is made of truth
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
When, in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
Who is it that says most, which can say more,
Who will believe my verse in time to come
Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,
Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day	2 Comments
Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
Your love and pity doth th' impression fill
'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed