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Oft expectation fails, and most oft there where most it promises and oft it hits where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.
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
Expectations
Coldest
Promise
Fits
Failure
Expectation
Failing
Hits
Hope
Fails
Promises
Fit
Despair
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An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.
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Gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite The man that mocks at it and sets it light.
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Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.
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Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast...
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Travelers never did lie, though fools at home condemn them.
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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.
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What is done cannot be now amended.
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You cannot make gross sins look clear: To revenge is no valour, but to bear.
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Be not too tame neither, but let your own Discretion be your tutor suit the action to the word, the word to the action.
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And, looking on it with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, It is ten o'clock: Thus we may see, quoth he, how the world wags.
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Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
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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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Tis in my memory lock'd, And you yourself shall keep the key of it.
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I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.
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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
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Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
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This is the very coinage of your brain: this bodiless creation ecstasy.
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Never shame to hear what you have nobly done
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