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As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods they kill us for their sport.
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
Sport
Gloucester
Gods
Cordelia
God
Squash
Kill
Lear
Boys
Insignificance
Sports
Wanton
Religious
Flies
Classic
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Come, Lady, die to live.
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Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
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He kills her in her own humor.
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Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
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There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
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I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
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I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
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No particular scandal one can touch but it confounds the breather.
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My way of life Is fall'n into the sear and yellow leaf.
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All gold and silver rather turn to dirt, An 'tis no better reckoned but of these Who worship dirty gods.
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So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.
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See the minutes, how they run, How many make the hour full complete How many hours bring about the day How many days will finish up the year How many years a mortal man may live.
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Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash ’tis something, nothing ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
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Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell ... Or say with princes if it shall go well.
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These words are razors to my wounded heart.
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His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.
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O madam, my old heart is cracked, it's cracked!
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They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.
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Mend when thou canst be better at thy leisure.
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Thou knowest, winter tames man, woman, and beast.
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