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wert thou as far As that vast shore washed with the farthest sea, I would adventure for such merchandise.
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
Shore
Vast
Thou
Adventure
Sea
Wert
Would
Farthest
Merchandise
Washed
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Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
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My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent.
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Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.
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Coward dogs most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten runs far before them.
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Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.— Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!
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But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
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You know That I do fawn on men, and hug them hard, And after scandal them.
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See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!
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But there is no such man for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words.
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For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.
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Happy thou art not for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get and what thou hast, forgettest.
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
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I prithee gentle friend, Let thy fair wisdom, not thy passions, sway In this uncivil and unjust extent Against thy peace.
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An angel or, if not, An earthly paragon.
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You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
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I'll make death love me for I will contend Even with his pestilent scythe.
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Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face! I had rather lie in the woolen.
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Unless the old adage must be verified, That beggars mounted, run their horse to death.
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Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?
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Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
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