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It were a grief so brief to part with thee. Farewell.
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
Farewell
Brief
Thee
Grief
Part
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I bear a charmed life.
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Thou seest we are not all alone unhappy: This wide and universal theatre Presents more woeful pageants than the scene Wherein we play in.
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We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
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Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All many be well.
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O hell! to choose love with another's eye.
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This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.
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Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
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This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.
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I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.
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I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
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Too much to know is to know naught but fame.
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I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love.
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She is a woman, therefore to be won.
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All is well ended, if the suit be won.
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I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old man and no honester than I.
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Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!
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Every why has a wherefore.
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Well, I'll repent, and that suddenly, while I am in some liking I shall be out of heart shortly, and then I shall have no strength to repent.
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Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.
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And do so, love, yet when they have devised What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend, Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood in thee it is abused.
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