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Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.
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
Tired
Though
Mare
Plod
Mares
Patience
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Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off ... Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
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Ambition's debt is paid.
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As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
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He is well paid that is well satisfied.
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There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.
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He is white-livered and red-faced.
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Thus die I, thus, thus, thus. Now am I dead, Now am I fled My soul is in the sky: Tongue, lose thy light Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die, die.
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Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.
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Grief makes one hour ten.
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There's little of the melancholy element in her, my lord: she is never sad but when she sleeps and not ever sad then for I have heard my daughter say, she hath often dreamt of unhappiness, and waked herself with laughing.
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Time, whose millioned accidents creep in betwixt vows, and change decrees of kings, tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharpest intents, divert strong minds to the course of altering things.
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To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.
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Two women placed together makes cold weather.
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Strong reasons make strong actions let us go If you say ay, the king will not say no.
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Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator.
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For I can raise no money by vile means.
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How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!
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Let me confess that we two must be twain, although our undivided loves are one.
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I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.
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I'll make death love me for I will contend Even with his pestilent scythe.
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