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The moon shines bright. In such a night as this. When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees and they did make no noise, in such a night.
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
Wind
Bright
Tree
Kiss
Night
Trees
Make
Noise
Shining
Kissing
Merchants
Moon
Gently
Sweet
Shines
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Heaven would that she these gifts should have, and I to live and die her slave.
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Let us our lives, our souls, Our debts, our careful wives, Our children, and our sins, lay on the King!
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My wits begin to turn.
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Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues.
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Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport discretion.
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O England! Model to thy inward greatness, like little body with a might heart.
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Let's meet as little as we can
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Nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will.
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A Devil, a born Devil on whose nature, nurture can never stick, on whom my pain, humanly taken, all lost, quite lost.
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How poor are they that have have not patients.
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The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
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Let still woman take An elder than herself: so wears she to him, So sways she level in her husband's heart, For, boy, however we do praise ourselves, Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, More longing, wavering, sooner to be lost and warn, Than women's are.
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Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
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Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
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There is a history in all men's lives, Figuring the nature of the times deceased, The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, which in their seeds And weak beginnings lie intreasured.
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Hear the meaning within the word.
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Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.
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The world must be peopled!
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On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air
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