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Men are April when they woo, December when they wed.
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
December
April
Men
Wooing
Maids
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Juliet is the east and i am the sun.
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Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear
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So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.
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Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short youth is nimble, age is lame Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold Youth is wild, and age is tame.
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Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.
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Making night hideous.
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Minutes, hours, days, months, and years, Pass'd over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs unto a quiet grave. Ah, what a life were this!
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His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.
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If you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison us do we not die? And if you wrong us shall we not revenge?
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Past and to come, seems best things present, worse.
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Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
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If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide, By self-example mayst thou be denied.
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The devil knew what he did when he made men politic he crossed himself by it.
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You are a tedious fool.
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Comfort's in heaven, and we are on the earth
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If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
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There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.
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Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.
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And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence
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Are there no stones in heaven But what serves for thunder?
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