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Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
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
Bright
Angel
Though
Stills
Still
Brightest
Brows
Angels
Fell
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Travelers never did lie, though fools at home condemn them.
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'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after.
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The curse of marriage That we can call these delicate creatures ours And not their appetites!
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Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more, Men were deceivers ever,- One foot in sea and one on shore, To one thing constant never.
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Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face! I had rather lie in the woolen.
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I will instruct my sorrows to be proud for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.
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Stones have been known to move and trees to speak.
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He is white-livered and red-faced.
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The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.
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O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
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I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse: borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.
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Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.
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My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
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O, she misused me past the endurance of a block.
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His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.
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Waste not thy time in windy argument but let the matter drop.
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Let's meet as little as we can
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This feather stirs she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.
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Through tattered clothes great vices do appear Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
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The crown o' the earth doth melt. My lord! O, wither'd is the garland of the war, The soldier's pole is fall'n: young boys and girls Are level now with men the odds is gone, And there is nothing left remarkable Beneath the visiting moon.
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