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I would fain die a dry death.
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
Fain
Dry
Memorable
Dies
Death
Would
More quotes by William Shakespeare
He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.
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From women's eyes this doctrine I derive: They sparkle still the right Promethean fire They are the books, the arts, the academes, That show, contain and nourish all the world.
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Ruin has taught me to ruminate, That Time will come and take my love away. This thought is as a death, which cannot choose But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
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Then to Silvia let us sing that Silvia is excelling. She excels each mortal thing upon the dull earth dwelling.
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To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning.
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Unquiet meals make ill digestions.
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How strange or odd some'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on.
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Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
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Take no repulse, whatever she doth say For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away.' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces
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They are in the very wrath of love, and they will go together. Clubs cannot part them
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My only love sprung from my only hate.
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I'll note you in my book of memory.
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I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear
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The poorest service is repaid with thanks.
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What is past is prologue.
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O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !
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For oaths are straws, men's faiths are wafer-cakes, And hold-fast is the only dog.
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There is no slander in an allowed fool, though he do nothing but rail.
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If thou art rich, thou art poor for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.
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Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
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