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Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
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
Stills
Still
Love
Injurious
Life
Respite
Horror
Comfort
Whose
Dying
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In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
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See the minutes, how they run, How many make the hour full complete How many hours bring about the day How many days will finish up the year How many years a mortal man may live.
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Should all despair That have revolted wives, the tenth of mankind Would hang themselves.
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The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name such tricks hath strong imagination.
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Though inclination be as sharp as will, My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect.
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Weep I cannot But my heart bleeds.
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Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!
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Patch grief with proverbs.
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All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.
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The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.
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They are hare-brain'd slaves.
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Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest. Evils that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil.
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Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
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There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.
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She says I am not fair, that I lack manners She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, Were man as rare as Phoenix.
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What need the bridge much broader than the flood?
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He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
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You shall more command with years than with your weapons.
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This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.
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Speak, what trade art thou? Why, sir, a carpenter. Where is thy leather apron and thy rule? What does thou with thy best apparel on?
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