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for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
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
Must
Staying
Thou
Way
Either
Company
Keep
Littles
Tybalt
Soul
Thine
Little
Heads
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Receive what cheer you may. The night is long that never finds the day.
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And mind, with my heart in't and now farewell Till half an hour hence.
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From this time forth My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!
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Nature, as it grows again toward earth, is fashioned for the journey, dull and heavy.
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Thou lump of foul deformity!
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There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.
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Speak, my fair, and fairly, I pray thee.
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Thou ominous and fearful owl of death.
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The wound of peace is surety, Surety secure but modest doubt is called The beacon of the wise, the tent that searches To th' bottom of the worst.
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He must needs go that the devil drives.
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Hasty marriage seldom proveth well.
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The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
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That if you be honest and fair, your honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty.
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This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.
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I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid, on a dolphin's back, Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song And certain stars shot madly from their spheres, To hear the sea-maid's music.
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Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.
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Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?
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