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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.
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
Read
Aught
History
Midsummer
Running
Tale
True
Smooth
Ever
Tales
Never
Hear
Love
Courses
Course
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Take pains. Be perfect.
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He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter.
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I shall the effect of this good lesson keeps as watchman to my heart.
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His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.
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I do beseech you- Though I perchance am vicious in my guess , that your wisdom yet From one that so imperfectly conjects Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance.
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How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!
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If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and this is mine You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine You give away myself, which is known mine For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me-- Either both or none.
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Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
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He that keeps not crust nor crum Weary of all, shall want some.
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Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.
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Even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering.
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Bear with my weakness. My old brain is troubled. Be not disturbed with my infirmity.
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Yes, faith it is my cousin's duty to make curtsy and say 'Father, as it please you.' But yet for all that, cousin, let him be a handsome fellow, or else make another curtsy and say 'Father, as it please me.
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Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
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Faults that are rich are fair.
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To hold, as 't were, the mirror up to nature.
William Shakespeare
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
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The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you The malice towards you to forgive you.
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My dear, dear Lord, The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation that away Men are but gilded loan or painted clay... Mine honor is my life both grow in one Take honor from me, and my life is done.
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Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.
William Shakespeare