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Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
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
Giving
Acres
Would
Barren
Estates
Memorable
Ground
Sea
Thousand
Acre
Give
Tempest
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Rebellion in this land shall lose his sway, meeting the check of such another day.
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For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
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For now they kill me with a living death.
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Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast! Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest.
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Be just, and fear not. Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's and truth's.
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Man, proud man, drest in a little brief authority, most ignorant of what he's most assur d, glassy essence, like an angry ape, plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, as make the angels weep.
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That is not the best sermon which makes the hearers go away talking to one another and praising the speaker, but which makes them go away thoughtful and serious, and hastening to be alone.
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Make use of time, let not advantage slip.
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Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
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Demetrius: Villain, what hast thou done? Aaron: That which thou canst not undo. Chiron: Thou hast undone our mother. Aaron: Villain, I have done thy mother.
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Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.
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I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.
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'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase you vile standing-tuck!
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The let-alone lies not in your good will.
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Coal-black is better than another hue In that it scorns to bear another hue For all the water in the ocean Can never turn the swan's black legs to white, Although she lave them hourly in the flood.
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What seest thou else In the dark backward and abysm of time?
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Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
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There is some soul of goodness in things evil, Would men observingly distill it out.
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Yet writers say, as in the sweetest bud The eating canter dwells, so eating love Inhabits in the finest wits of all.
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