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We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
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
Little
Dreamer
Pageant
Made
Fabric
Rounded
Life
Psychology
Tempest
Dreams
Insomnia
Sleep
Faded
Stuff
Palaces
Dream
Solemn
Littles
Exposure
Masque
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Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
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I have shot mine arrow o'er the house And hurt my brother.
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Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.
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Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
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O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch! Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?
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in black ink my love may still shine bright.
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Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars That make ambition virtue.
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The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
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Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.
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I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
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O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
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Until I know this sure uncertainty, I'll entertain the offered fallacy.
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It will have blood, they say blood will have blood.
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So far be distant and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end
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Most friendship is faining, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly. This life is most jolly.
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It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.
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My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
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Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
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