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Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.
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
Hamlet
Excellent
Lord
Wells
Well
Polonius
More quotes by William Shakespeare
My soul is in the sky.
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A pal is one that is aware you while you are, understands where you have already been, accepts whatever you are becoming, and continue to, carefully means that you can develop.
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And nothing is, but what is not.
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Free from gross passion or of mirth of anger constant spirit, not swerving with the blood, garnish'd and deck'd in modest compliment, not working with the eye without the ear, and but in purged judgement trusting neither? Such and so finely bolted didst thou seem.
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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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Why, I can smile and murder whiles I smile, And cry 'content' to that which grieves my heart, And wet my cheeks with artificial tears, And frame my face for all occasions
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To business that we love we rise betime, and go to't with delight.
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Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
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Love's stories written in love's richest books. To fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.
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Time travels in divers paces with divers persons. I'll tell you who Time ambles withal, who Time trots withal, who Time gallops withal, and who he stands still withal.
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You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised.
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Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!
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I am sure, Though you can guess what temperance should be, You know not what it is.
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The soul of this man is his clothes.
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O excellent! I love long life better than figs.
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Well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads.
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Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
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Here's flowers for you Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
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Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
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So they loved as love in twain Had the essence but in one Two distinct, divisions none.
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