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Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
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
Girl
Golden
Hast
Sweepers
Fear
Winter
Furious
Lads
Death
Thou
Worldly
Rages
Art
Tasks
Wages
Winters
Home
Sun
Heat
Chimney
Come
Girls
Rage
Chimneys
Done
Dying
Task
Lad
Must
Gone
Dust
Impermanence
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Is it not strange, that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies!
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Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.
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She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared
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But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great: Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose but Fortune, O!
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But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
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However wickedness outstrips men, it has no wings to fly from God.
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Full fathom five thy father lies
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I always thought it was both impious and unnatural that such immanity and bloody strife should reign among professors of one faith.
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Ay beauty's princely majesty is such, Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.
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Sweet are the uses of adversity
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Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Ang'ring itself and others.
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But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He'll soon find means to make the body follow.
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Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now.
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The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.
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His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.
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I would fain die a dry death.
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Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.
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The world must be peopled!
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But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?
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There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
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