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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
Upon
Glorious
House
Clouds
Made
Winter
Summer
Ocean
Bosom
Sun
Bosoms
York
Discontent
Deep
Buried
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The Hebrew will turn Christian he grows kind.
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O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.
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Bear with my weakness. My old brain is troubled. Be not disturbed with my infirmity.
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If yon bethink yourself of any crime Unreconcil'd as yet to heaven and grace, Solicit for it straight.
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That man that hath a tongue, I say is no man, if with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
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Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
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To fear the worst oft cures the worst.
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There are a sort of men, whose visages Do cream and mantle, like a standing pond And do a willful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dressed in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity profound conceit As who should say, I am sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!
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You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
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Princes have but their titles for their glories, An outward honor for an inward toil And, for unfelt imaginations, They often feel a world of restless cares.
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O, where is loyalty? If it be banished from the frosty head, Where shall it find a harbor in the earth?
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All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
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Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.
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Music, moody food Of us that trade in love.
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O,speak to me no morethese words like daggers enter my ears.(a fancy way of saying SHUT UP!) — William Shakespeare hamlet
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A woman's thought runs before her actions.
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But men are men the best sometimes forget.
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Still it cried ‘Sleep no more!’ to all the house: ‘Glamis hath murder’d sleep, and therefore Cawdor shall sleep no more,—Macbeth shall sleep no more!
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I will despair, and be at enmity With cozening hope.
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Confess yourself to heaven, Repent what's past, avoid what is to come, And do not spread the compost on the weeds To make them ranker.
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