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I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.
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
Rare
Bottom
Vision
Dream
Past
Men
Midsummer
Wit
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.
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Ay me! sad hours seem long.
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Give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.
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There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
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To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.
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Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller.
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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
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Nature hath framed strange fellows in her time.
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God grant us patience!
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Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
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To be in love- where scorn is bought with groans, Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's mirth With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain If lost, why then a grievous labour won However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
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'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.
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Opinion's but a fool, that makes us scan The outward habit by the inward man.
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GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .
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I have heard it said There is an art which in their piedness shares With great creating nature.
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My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.
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But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
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Give thy thoughts no tongue.
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And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?
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Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But like a thrifty goddess she determines Herself the glory of a creditor,Both thanks and use.
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