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Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.
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
Rooted
Suffer
Garden
Spring
Suffering
Weeds
Shallow
Weed
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The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne, Burnt on the water.
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My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.
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for my grief's so great That no supporter but the huge firm earth Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (Constance, from King John, Act III, scene 1)
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I must be cruel only to be kind Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
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Give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.
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I’ll look to like, if looking liking move But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
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Civil dissension is a viperous worm That gnaws the bowels of the commonwealth.
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I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.
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When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence so sweet is zealous contemplation.
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Greatness knows itself.
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These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately long love doth so Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
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What light through yonder window breaks?
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He's truly valiant that can wisely suffer The worst that man can breathe, and make his wrongs His outsides, to wear them like his raiment, carelessly, And ne'er prefer his injuries to his heart, To bring it into danger.
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Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.
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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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Unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.
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Even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering.
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Mend when thou canst be better at thy leisure.
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