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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
Purple
Apple
Apples
Flower
Eye
Archery
Cupid
Sink
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The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality.
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By a divine instinct, men's minds mistrust ensuing danger as, by proof, we see the waters swell before a boisterous storm.
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Why should we rise because 'tis light? Did we lie down because t'was night?
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As you from crimes would pardon'd be, Let your indulgence set me free.
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To persevere In obstinate condolement is a course Of impious stubbornness: 'tis unmanly grief.
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O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell
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This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.
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An angel or, if not, An earthly paragon.
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There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is. ~William Shakespeare
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How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!
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Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
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A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
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The prince of darkness is a gentleman!
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There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
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Come, and take choice of all my library, And so beguile thy sorrow.
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I do beseech you- Though I perchance am vicious in my guess , that your wisdom yet From one that so imperfectly conjects Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble Out of his scattering and unsure observance.
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That island of England breeds very valiant creatures their mastiffs are of unmatchable courage.
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Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
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Let the galled jade wince our withers are unwrung.
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Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight
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