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Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
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
Sink
Purple
Apple
Apples
Flower
Eye
Archery
Cupid
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Diseased Nature oftentimes breaks forth In strange eruptions.
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Let life be short, else shame will be too long.
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My wits begin to turn.
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I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.
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Cursed be he that moves my bones.
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Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?
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But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
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Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.
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The thing of courage As rous'd with rage doth sympathise, And, with an accent tun'd in self-same key, Retorts to chiding fortune.
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O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
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Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, meeting the check of such another day.
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When griping grief the heart doth wound, and doleful dumps the mind opresses, then music, with her silver sound, with speedy help doth lend redress.
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The king is but a man, as I am the violet smells to him as it doth to me the element shows to him as it doth to me all his senses have but human conditions his ceremonies laid by, in his nakedness he appears but a man and though his affections are higher mounted than ours, yet, when they stoop, they stoop with the like wing.
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But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds [vows] disgraced them. Viola: Thy reason, man? Feste: Troth [Truthfully], sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loathe to prove reason with them.
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Tis a cruelty to load a fallen man.
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To persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness: 'tis unmanly grief.
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
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'Tis better to bear the ills we have than fly to others that we know not of.
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I do profess to be no less than I seem to serve him truly that will put me in trust: to love him that is honest to converse with him that is wise, and says little to fear judgment to fight when I cannot choose and to eat no fish.
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Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's and truth's.
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