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Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
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
Looks
Pretty
Puts
Stuffs
Children
Child
Bed
Vacant
Lying
Parts
Remembers
Words
Grief
Garments
Stuff
Lies
Fills
Form
Room
Gracious
Remember
Rooms
Absent
Look
Walks
Repeats
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How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!
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Condemn the fault and not the actor of it?
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Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.
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All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
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I am a feather for each wind that blows
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Not an angel of the air, Bird melodious or bird fair, Be absent hence!
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Men should be what they seem Or those that be not, would they might seem none!.
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They may seize On the white wonder of dear Juliet's hand And steal immortal blessing from her lips, Who, even in pure and vestal modesty, Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin.
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No, I will be the pattern of all patience I will say nothing.
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A sympathy in choice.
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Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth.
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God bless thee and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!
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We cannot all be masters, nor all masters Cannot be truly followed.
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The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.
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My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun
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When a father gives to his son, both laugh when a son gives to his father, both cry.
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Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away.
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The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many thing by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!
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You are an alchemist make gold of that.
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Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.
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