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Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands. Curtsied when you have and kissed The wild waves whist, Foot is featly here and there And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. Ariel's song, scene II, Act I
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
Song
Wild
Ariel
Hands
Wave
Sands
Come
Burden
Kissed
Take
Bear
Waves
Bears
Unto
Scene
Yellow
Sweet
Foot
Sprites
Feet
Sand
Whist
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How poor are they that have have not patients.
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Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
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Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.
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If music be the food of love, play on.
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I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends.
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O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation.
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
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You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
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Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
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Most friendship is faining, most loving mere folly: Then, heigh-ho, the holly. This life is most jolly.
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What is the city but the people?
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ROMEO to BALTHASAR But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry In what I further shall intend to do, By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs: The time and my intents are savage-wild, More fierce and more inexorable far Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.
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We must follow, not force Providence.
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Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
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Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?
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Though it make the unskillful laugh, cannot but make the judicious grieve.
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O, I do not like that paying back, 'tis a double labor.
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Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
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