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I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways.
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
Kill
Hundred
Ways
War
Way
Fifty
Thee
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Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.
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O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!
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O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh
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Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.
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The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality.
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And since you know you cannot see yourself, so well as by reflection, I, your glass, will modestly discover to yourself, that of yourself which you yet know not of.
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As a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honorable than the bare brow of a bachelor.
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There's such divinity doth hedge a king That treason can but peep to what it would.
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Honor's thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man.
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And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish'd from myself And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!
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Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!
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My love is deep the more I give to thee, the more I have, both are infinite.
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Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?
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And yet,to say the truth, reason and love keep little company together nowadays.
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Let them obey that knows not how to rule.
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But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.
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The seasons change their manners, as the year Had found some months asleep and leapt them over.
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Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange.
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My charity is outrage, life my shame And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
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I am that merry wanderer of the night.
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