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O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.
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
Constancy
Constant
Heaven
Perfect
Men
Love
Inconstancy
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This world to me is like a lasting storm,Whirring me from my friends.
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A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind.
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Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.
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It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.
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No particular scandal one can touch but it confounds the breather.
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We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.
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For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
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Base is the slave that pays.
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Nature's tears are reason's merriment.
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It is thyself, mine own self's better part Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
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Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake.
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O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
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O hell! to choose love with another's eye.
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Say she rail why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.
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Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
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Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
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All the world's a stage ... and you better have a zoning variance or it's coming down.
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Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.
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To die: - to sleep: No more and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.
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