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All of Creation’s a farce. Man was born as a joke. In his head his reason is buffeted Like wind-blown smoke. Life is a game. Everyone ridicules everyone else. But he who has the last laugh Laughs longest.
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
Men
Head
Joke
Life
Games
Smoke
Ridicules
Like
Lasts
Jokes
Buffeted
Last
Laugh
Farce
Everyone
Laughing
Longest
Born
Creation
Blown
Else
Wind
Laughs
Reason
Game
Ridicule
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Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you.
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Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.
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My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
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Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know'st thou art and then thou art as great as that thou fear'st.
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For conspiracy, I know not how it tastes, though it be dished For me to try how.
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Despair and die. The ghosts
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Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news.
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And it is very much lamented,... That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow.
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It is not vain glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber.
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Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun it shines everywhere.
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What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
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A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man.
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Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.
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For here, I hope, begins our lasting joy.
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Press not a falling man too far 'tis virtue: His faults lie open to the laws let them, Not you, correct him.
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There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently
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The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours, Even in the moment that we call them ours.
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I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.
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Nay, had I pow'r, I should Pour the sweet milk of concord into hell, Uproar the universal peace, confound All unity on earth.
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By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost It yearns me not if me my garments wear Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.
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