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The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you The malice towards you to forgive you.
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
Malice
Spares
Forgive
Forgiving
Towards
Pow
Spare
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What is aught but as 'tis valued?
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Romeo: I dreamt a dream tonight. Mercutio: And so did I. Romeo: Well, what was yours? Mercutio: That dreamers often lie. Romeo: In bed asleep while they do dream things true.
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In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
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To weep is to make less the depth of grief.
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Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate.
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To be furious, is to be frighted out of fear.
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Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.
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Like one who draws the model of a house beyond his power to build it who, half through, gives o'er, and leaves his part-created cost a naked subject to the weeping clouds.
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I see men's judgments are A parcel of their fortunes and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike.
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The will is deaf and hears no heedful friends.
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Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.
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Grace and remembrance be to you both.
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What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.
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Henceforth, I'll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself, 'Enough, enough, and die.
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Men are April when they woo, December when they wed.
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Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, Live regist'red upon our brazen tombs And then grace us in the disgrace of death When, spite of cormorant devouring Time, Th' endeavor of this present breath may buy That honor which shall bate his scythe's keen edge And make us heirs of all eternity.
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A good heart 'is worth gold.
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Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.
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Hear me profess sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather have eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
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In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
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