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Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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
York
Discontent
Deep
Buried
Upon
Glorious
House
Clouds
Made
Winter
Summer
Ocean
Bosom
Sun
Bosoms
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The caterpillars of the commonwealth, Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.
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Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.
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But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly.
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To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?
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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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Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.
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Tis a happy thing To be the father unto many sons.
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But there is no such man for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words.
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O, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer!
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Whereto serves mercy But to confront the visage of offense?
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What is past is prologue.
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Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall: Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none: And some condemned for a fault alone.
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What a terrible era in which idiots govern the blind.
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The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony.
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Be merry, and employ your chiefest thoughts To courtship and such fair ostents of love As shall conveniently become you there.
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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
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For what good turn? Messenger: For the best turn of the bed.
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Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.
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'Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.
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