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Men are April when they woo, December when they wed. Maids are May when they are maids, but the sky changes when they are wives.
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
Women
December
May
Wives
Men
April
Sky
Changes
Spring
Marriage
Maids
Wife
Springtime
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An angel or, if not, An earthly paragon.
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By that sin fell the angels.
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That but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the life to come.
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For youth no less becomes The light and careless livery that it wears, Than settled age his sables, and his weeds Importing health and graveness.
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Doubting things go ill often hurts more Than to be sure they do for certainties Either are past remedies, or, timely knowing, The remedy then born.
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Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your dispositions to be married It is an honor that I dream not of
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Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.
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Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age have left me naked to mine enemies.
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All the contagion of the south light on you, You shames of Rome! you herd of--boils and plagues Plaster you o'er that you may be abhorr'd Further than seen, and one infect another Against the wind a mile!
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One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
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Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.
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Oh, flatter me for love delights in praises.
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I should think this a gull, but that the white-bearded fellow speaks it knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such reverence.
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Live loath'd and long, Most smiling, smooth, detested parasites, Courteous destroyers, affable wolves, meek bears, You fools of fortune, trencher friends, time flies Cap and knee slaves, vapors, and minute jacks.
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Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.
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O most delicate fiend! Who is't can read a woman? Is there more?
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Passion lends them power, time means to meet, tempering extremities with extremes sweet.
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Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.
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Parting is such sweet sorrow
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If thou dost love, proclaim it faithfully.
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