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He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
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
Dead
Ophelia
Head
Turf
Gone
Heels
Death
Lady
Stone
Grass
Stones
Green
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Through tattered clothes great vices do appear Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
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The breach of custom Is breach of all.
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Journeys end in lovers meeting.
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Let none presume To wear an undeserved dignity. O that estates, degrees, and offices Were not derived corruptly, and that clear honour Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!
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What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?
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Holy, fair, and wise is she The heaven such grace did lend her, That she might admired be.
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What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?
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I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist.
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Her father lov'd me oft invited me Still question'd me the story of my life, From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have pass'd.
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A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
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Why, who cries out on pride that can therein tax any private party? Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea till the weary very means do ebb?
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The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.
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Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.
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O, my lord, You said that idle weeds are fast in growth: The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.
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My crown is called content, a crown that seldom kings enjoy.
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A good heart is the sun and the moon or, rather, the sun and not the moon, for it shines bright and never changes.
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And thence from Athens turn away our eyes To seek new friends and stranger companies.
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How easy it is for the proper-false in woman's waxen hearts to set their forms!
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thou art the best o' the cut-throats
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
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