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Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
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
Fire
Choke
Vex
Eyes
Sigh
Gall
Eye
Madness
Choking
Else
Smoke
Sighs
Love
Lovers
Discreet
Sea
Nourish
Tears
Sparkling
Sweet
Preserving
Fume
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Patch grief with proverbs.
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At once, good night- Stand not upon the order of your going, But go at once.
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God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
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Who buys a minute's mirth to wail a week? Or sell eternity to get a toy? For one grape who will the vine destroy?
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Life's uncertain voyage.
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That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimms, and makes it indistinct As water is in water
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The evil that men do lives after them the good is oft interred with their bones.
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For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on I tell you that which you yourselves do know.
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And nothing is, but what is not.
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My love is deep the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
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We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun.
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I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others.
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There's beggary in love that can be reckoned
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
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The heavens forbid But that our loves and comforts should increase Even as our days do grow!
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Smooth runs the water where the brook is deep.
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Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
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...too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
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Pardon's the word to all.
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Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?
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