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I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
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
Mad
Noble
Son
Polonius
Brevity
Brief
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The prize of all too precious you.
William Shakespeare
To be in love- where scorn is bought with groans, Coy looks with heart-sore sighs, one fading moment's mirth With twenty watchful, weary, tedious nights If haply won, perhaps a hapless gain If lost, why then a grievous labour won However, but a folly bought with wit, Or else a wit by folly vanquished.
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What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.
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How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!
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Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
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The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.
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Shall we upon the footing of our land Send fair-play orders, and make compromise, Insinuation, parley, and base truce, To arms invasive?
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O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping.
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Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.
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Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
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The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.
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Knowing I lov'd my books, he furnish'd me From mine own library with volumes that I prize above my dukedom.
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Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away.
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Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.
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On pain of death, no person be so bold.
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This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
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No worse a husband than the best of men.
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.
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Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
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Blood will have blood.
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