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He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear His hopes 'bove wisdom, grace and fear: And you all know, security Is mortals' chiefest enemy.
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
Fear
Bear
Death
Bears
Fate
Grace
Chiefest
Security
Spurn
Shall
Scorn
Enemy
Hopes
Wisdom
Mortals
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The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.
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We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy.
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The sense of death is most in apprehension.
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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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So. Lie there, my art.
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Never anything can be amiss, when simpleness and duty tender it.
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Honor, riches, marriage-blessing Long continuance, and increasing, Hourly joys be still upon you!
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The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
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Look, how this ring encompasseth thy finger, Even so thy breast encloseth my poor heart Wear both of them, for both of them are thine.
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I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
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Delivers in such apt and gracious words that aged ears play truant at his tales And younger hearings are quite ravished So sweet and voluble is his discourse.
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All the world is a stage and we are merely players.
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To you your father should be as a god One that composed your beauties, yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax, By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure or disfigure it.
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Wisdom and fortune combating together, If that the former dare but what it can, No chance may shake it.
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He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
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We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.
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I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.
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Hamlet: Is this a prologue, or the posy of a ring? Ophelia: 'Tis brief, my lord. Hamlet: As woman's love.
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A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm
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