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How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony
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
Night
Soft
Orbs
Become
Sounds
Creep
Music
Harmony
Sleeps
Ears
Creeps
Sweet
Moonlight
Sleep
Touches
Upon
Stillness
Sound
Bank
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My joy is death- Death, at whose name I oft have been afeard, Because I wish'd this world's eternity.
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No place indeed should murder sanctuarize Revenge should have no bounds.
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You have her father's love, Demetrius Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him!
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A good heart is the sun and the moon or, rather, the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes.
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Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.
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Tempt not a desperate man
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What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
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Things in motion sooner catch the eye than what not stirs.
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Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.
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That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'er-reaches one that would circumvent God, might it not?
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The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
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For in my youth I never did apply Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood.
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The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.
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Too much to know is to know nought but fame And every godfather can give a name.
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Oft have I heard that grief softens the mind And makes it fearful and degenerate.
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Base men being in love have then a nobility in their natures more than is native to them.
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He took the bride about the neck and kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack that at the parting all the church did echo.
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And writers say, as the most forward bud Is eaten by the canker ere it blow, Even so by love the young and tender wit Is turn'd to folly, blasting in the bud, Losing his verdure even in the prime, And all the fair effects of future hopes.
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Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words
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Tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburdened crawl toward death.
William Shakespeare