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But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.
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
Friendship
Loss
Friend
Restored
Ends
Losses
Think
Sorrows
Thinking
Thee
Dear
Sorrow
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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
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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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Fruits that blossom first will first be ripe.
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I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!
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Things done well and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.
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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
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Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
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Though inclination be as sharp as will, My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect.
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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When we mean to build, We first survey the plot, then draw the model And when we see the figure of the house, Then must we rate the cost of the erection.
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There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
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'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
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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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There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
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O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse.
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My endeavors Have ever come too short of my desires. Yet filed with my abilities.
William Shakespeare
The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd
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Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honor for an inward toil And, for unfelt imaginations, They often feel a world of restless cares.
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Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
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Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.
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