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Do all men kill the things they do not love ............ The quality of mercy is not strain'd It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest It blesseth him that gives and him that takes
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
Upon
Gentle
Place
Mercy
Shylock
Giving
Rain
Blest
Things
Kill
Merchants
Men
Gives
Venice
Love
Takes
Strain
Quality
Beneath
Heaven
Twice
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.
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Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
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To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand therefore, if tou art mov'd, thou runst away. (To be angry is to move, to be brave is to stand still. Therefore, if you're angry, you'll run away.)
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it provokes the desire, but it takes away the performance
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Love that well which thou must leave ere long.
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These times of woe afford no time to woo.
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If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
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Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.
William Shakespeare
All things that we ordained festival Turn from their office to black funeral-- Our instruments to melancholy bells, Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse And all things change them to the contrary.
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Ships are but boards, sailors but men.
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Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.
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Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
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He is winding the watch of his wit by and by it will strike.
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We that are true lovers run into strange capers.
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You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.
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How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!
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This making of Christians will raise the price of hogs.
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And nature must obey necessity.
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Would the cook were o' my mind!
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What e'er you are That in this desert inaccessible, Under the shade of melancholy boughs, Lose and neglect the creeping hours of time.
William Shakespeare