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By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate And with my hand I seal my true heart's 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
True
Hands
Soul
Grudging
Heart
Seal
Love
Seals
Hand
Heaven
Hate
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Hold, or cut bowstrings.
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I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
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A heavier task could not have been impos'd, Than I to speak my griefs unspeakable.
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Good old grandsire ... we shall be joyful of thy company.
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Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find awaked in such a kind Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means, and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly.
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Thus sometimes hath the brightest day a cloud And after summer evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold: So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet.
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The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
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Be still prepared for death: and death or life shall thereby be the sweeter.
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
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In nature's infinite book of secrecy A little I can read.
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Of all knowledge the wise and good seek most to know themselves.
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Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
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A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.
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Parting is such sweet sorrow
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I hourly learn a doctrine of obedience.
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By that sin fell the angels.
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But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.
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The Eyes are the window to your soul
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A poor thing, perhaps, but my own.
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I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.
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