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Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my 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
Shall
Winning
Women
Looks
Love
Beauteous
Taming
Kindness
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Hot blood begets hot thoughts, And hot thoughts beget Hot deeds, And hot deeds is love.
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I pray thee cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless as water in a sieve.
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My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
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Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!
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Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses.
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The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd
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Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date . . .
William Shakespeare
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
William Shakespeare
And the more pity that great folk should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christen.
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He kills her in her own humor.
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At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.
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Your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole.
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Inconstancy falls off ere it begins.
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O serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, feind angelical, dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honourable villain!
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All hoods make not monks.
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You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.
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Here's flowers for you Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
William Shakespeare
'Twas merry when You wagered on your angling, when your diver Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he With fervency drew up.
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Still constant is a wondrous excellence.
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A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man.
William Shakespeare