HamletNow I am alone. Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this player here, But in a fiction, in a dream of passion, Could force his soul so to histo his whole conceit That, from her working, all the visage warmed, Tears in his eyes, distraction in's aspect, A broken voice, and his whole function suiting With forms to his conceit? And all for nothing, For Hecuba! What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her? What would...

Who Was the Real Shakespeare? The Mysterious Mastermind Behind the Bard’s Plays New revelations suggest the legendary plays long credited to William Shakespeare actually originated from a secretive group of aristocratic thinkers. This 5,000-word essay follows the intriguing trail of clues leading to the real identity behind Shakespeare’s lost genius – reshaping everything history tells about the Western world’s most renowned playwright. From his humble origins as a glover’s son from...