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I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well
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
Heaven
Upon
Hands
Midsummer
Wells
Thee
Well
Follow
Make
Hell
Love
Hand
Dies
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Guiltiness will speak, though tongues were out of use
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What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye
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Though it be honest, it is never good to bring bad news.
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The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.
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Men's faults do seldom to themselves appear.
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Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself are much condemned to have an itching palm.
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And, if you love me, as I think you do, let's kiss and part, for we have much to do
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I'll fight, till from my bones my flesh be hacked.
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Small things make base men proud.
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Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious thing we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave.
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There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't
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I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.
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Your face, my thane, is as a book where men May read strange matters. To beguile the time, Look like the time bear welcome in your eye, Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under't.
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What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.
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Now no way can I stray Save back to England, all the world's my way.
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A grandma's name is little less in love than is the doting title of a mother.
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Death-counterfeiting sleep.
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Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?
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Love is merely a madness and, I tell you, deserves as well a dark house and a whip as madmen do and the reason why they are not so punish'd and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too.
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To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning.
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