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But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.
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
Often
Melancholy
Many
Contemplation
Humorous
Rumination
Sadness
Sundry
Indeed
Extracted
Mines
Compounded
Mine
Travels
Objects
Wraps
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When beggars die, there are no comets seen the heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes.
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Sweet are the uses of adversity
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Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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They say, the tongues of dying men Enforce attention, like deep harmony Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.
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Double, double, toil and trouble Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
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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.
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Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk!
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Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.
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In such business Action is eloquence, and the eyes of th’ ignorant More learned than the ears.
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A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
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Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.
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The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.
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Abandon all remorse On horror's head horrors accumulate.
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Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.
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I have nothing Of woman in me now from head to foot I am marble-constant.
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And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.
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Now he'll outstare the lightning. To be furious Is to be frightened out of fear.
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Small to greater matters must give way.
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