All agree Shakespeare was an excellent writer. According to Merriam-Webster, he is "celebrated for creating characters of great psychological depth and for presenting in his plays virtually the entire range of human emotion and experience." 

But, sadly, the man and his voice are gone. 

Now, almost four centuries later, our manner of speech doesn't resemble his in the least, and that's okay. Unless we're writing historical fiction, such language sounds overly dramatic and highly pretentious. 

EXAMPLE:
Remaining was out of the question, for the sun beckoned him beyond the windows of her Manhattan apartment. Rise! Rise! Yet he yearned to re-experience her there on the bed, to feel her alluring flesh against him once more before he bid a fond adieu. However, thoughts of the subsequent departure hung heavy on his heart. He abandoned the room without uttering a farewell. Was he fair?

CLEANED UP:
He couldn't stay. The morning sun had already burst into her apartment windows, and now glared at his watch. But oh, how he wanted to touch her, to feel the softness of her skin once more before he went to work. If only he were strong enough to withstand the look in her eye when he said goodbye. 

EXAMPLE:
Am I yet the first to discover the delicious irony? Catrina thought to herself. Relief, is there not, in receiving condemnation from those who yearn to stand behind this face? At first I did not see the heightened greenness. I labored under the delusion that they insulted my music because they did not understand it. And they did not understand it because they knew not the difference between an instrument and a bowel movement. Yet they call themselves music scholars. Indeed I hoard the reviews! Indeed I revel in knowing that the very thing they proclaimed dead shall long outlive them all!

CLEANED UP:
The first? Am I the only one who finds the delicious irony in getting kicked in the teeth by those who really want to stand in my place? It took a while, but I finally saw the jealousy. They hit below the belt because they couldn't touch the music, and they couldn't touch the music because they didn't know a keyboard from a turd. Music scholars--HA! So yeah, whenever I want a good laugh, I pull out the old reviews, relishing in the fact that what those critics predicted dead by 1972 will ultimately outlive every damned one of them. 

Alice caught the baby with some difficulty, as it was a queer-shaped little creature, and held out its arms and legs in all directions, just like a starfish, thought Alice. The poor little thing was snorting like a steam-engine when she caught it, and kept doubling itself up and straightening itself out again, so that altogether, for the first minute or two, it was as much as she could do to hold it.

As soon as she had made out the proper way of nursing it (which was to twist it up into a sort of knot, and then keep tight hold of its right ear and left foot, so as to prevent its undoing itself,) she carried it out into the open air. If I don't take this child away with me, thought Alice, they're sure to kill it in a day or two: wouldn't it be murder to leave it behind? She said the last words out loud, and the little thing grunted in reply (it had left off sneezing by this time). "Don't grunt," said Alice, "that's not at all a proper way of expressing yourself."

                                                              -- Lewis Carroll
                           Alice's Adventures in Wonderland