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Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.
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
Loses
Fled
Dies
Flight
Light
Tongue
Soul
Thus
Take
Sky
Moon
Lose
Dead
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Things at the worst will cease or else climb upward To what they were before.
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As in a theatre, the eyes of men, after a well-graced actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next.
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He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.
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Canst thou, O partial sleep, give thy repose to the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude, and in the calmest and most stillest night, with all appliances and means to boot, deny it to a king?
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If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not
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All that glisters is not gold Often have you heard that told.
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Strong reasons make strong actions.
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If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms.
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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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There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
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I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!
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Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale. Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to th' rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, While night's black agents to their prey do rouse.
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Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!
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I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.
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I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
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