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We will meet and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
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
Night
Dream
May
Courageously
Midsummer
Rehearse
Bottom
Meet
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What a piece of work is a man
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O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults, looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!
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The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
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You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.
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Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.
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The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
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Here was a Caesar! When comes such another?
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Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.
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The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar but not gone.
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The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you The malice towards you to forgive you.
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Take her away for she hath lived too long, To fill the world with vicious qualities.
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Love that well which thou must leave ere long.
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Short time seems long in sorrow's sharp sustaining.
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Some glory in their birth , some in their skill , Some in their wealth , some in their bodies' force , Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill Some in their hawks and hounds , some in their horse And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure , Wherein it finds a joy above the rest .
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He that dies pays all debts.
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His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.
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Nor shall this peace sleep with her but as when The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix, Her ashes new-create another heir As great in admiration as herself.
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I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.
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Thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.
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Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.
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