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The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.
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
Follows
Thank
Trouble
Stills
Still
Love
Sometime
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Kindness nobler ever than revenge.
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I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated To closeness and the bettering of my mind.
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I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire.
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All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.
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They do not love that do not show their love. The course of true love never did run smooth. Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.
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Heaven give you many, many merry days.
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we are the lords of all eternity
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Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!
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Let's take the instant by the forward top For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees The inaudible and noiseless foot of Time Steals ere we can effect them.
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He's of the colour of the nutmeg. And of the heat of the ginger.... he is pure air and fire and the dull elements of earth and water never appear in him, but only in patient stillness while his rider mounts him he is indeed a horse, and all other jades you may call beasts.
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When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
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Ay, but hearken, sir though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.
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Fill all thy bones with aches.
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This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
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Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school.
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Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.
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Here comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With his mouth full of news. Celia: Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. Rosalind: Then shall we be news-crammed. Celia: All the better we shall be the more marketable.
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We will draw the curtain and show you the picture.
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The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.
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Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
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