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The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.
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
Thinking
Bird
Cheeks
Juliet
Eyes
Stream
Lamp
Stars
Regions
Brightness
Heaven
Streams
Cheek
Eye
Birds
Daylight
Night
Bright
Lamps
Would
Shame
Doth
Think
Sing
Region
Airy
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Lord Bacon told Sir Edward Coke when he was boasting, The less you speak of your greatness, the more shall I think of it.
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He hath eaten me out of house and home.
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Suspicion shall be all stuck full of eyes.
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Things done well and with a care, exempt themselves from fear.
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Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
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Every great drama has its foreshadow.
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But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
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He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.
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Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.
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Time and the hour run through the roughest day.
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Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind.
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Some grief shows much of love, But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
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Until I know this sure uncertainty, I'll entertain the offered fallacy.
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. . . it is impossible you should take true root but by the fair weather that you make yourself it is needful that you frame the season of your own harvest.
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There is nothing serious in Mortality
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I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing.
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Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is near the hate of those love not the King.
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Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
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Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly a flower that dies when it begins to bud a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.
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