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I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
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
Hands
Breakfast
Work
North
Mind
Six
Hotspur
Life
Seven
Washes
Quiet
Scots
Says
Percy
Wife
Kills
Upon
Dozen
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This act is an ancient tale new told And, in the last repeating, troublesome, Being urged at a time unseasonable.
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There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.
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I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.
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You have dancing shoes with nimble soles. I have a soul of lead.
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Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
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The last taste of sweets is sweetest last.
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Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very like a whale.
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First Witch He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou nought.
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So all my best is dressing old words new.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
William Shakespeare
When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men for thus sings he, Cuckoo Cuckoo, cuckoo O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.
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I will not be sworn but love may transform me to an oyster
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Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.
William Shakespeare
These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume
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If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, Thou robb'st me of a moiety.
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Truly the souls of men are full of dread: Ye cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of fear.
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Mend when thou canst be better at thy leisure.
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Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
William Shakespeare