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Cowards die many times before their deaths the valiant never taste of death but once.
William Shakespeare
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William Shakespeare
Age: 51 †
Born: 1564
Born: April 26
Died: 1616
Died: April 23
Actor
Dramaturge
Playwright
Poet
Stage Actor
Writer
Stratford-upon-Avon
Warwickshire
Shakespeare
The Bard
The Bard of Avon
William Shakspere
Swan of Avon
Bard of Avon
Shakespere
Shakespear
Shakspeare
Shackspeare
William Shake‐ſpeare
Death
Grief
Deaths
Running
Taste
Playwright
Character
Dying
Cowardice
Many
Courage
Bravery
Never
Dies
Coward
Julius
Times
Memorable
Valiant
Fear
Theme
Cowards
Inspirational
Tragedy
Badass
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On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air
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Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.
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Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.
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All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages.
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He that is strucken blind can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.
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Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face! I had rather lie in the woolen.
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Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.
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Open thy gate of mercy, gracious God, My soul flies through these wounds to seek out thee.
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By my troth, I care not a man can die but once we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next
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You are yoked with a lamb, That carries anger as the flint bears fire Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spank, And straight is cold again.
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments: love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds.
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You have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead.
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Like a red morn that ever yet betokened, Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to the shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.
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These words are razors to my wounded heart.
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Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
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Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
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Myself will straight aboard, and to the state This heavy act with heavy heart relate.
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Lord Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words. Lord Polonius: What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Lord Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.
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Foul whisperings are abroad
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Foul whisp'rings are abroad.
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