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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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
Smell
Groaning
Cry
Burial
Dog
Havoc
Deed
Shall
Foul
War
Loose
Earth
Dogs
Men
Deeds
Carrion
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I am now of all humors that have showed themselves humors since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.
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Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under it.
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
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But like of each thing that in season grows.
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O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)
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For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
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Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
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She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I lov'd her that she did pity them
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It is to be all made of fantasy, All made of passion and all made of wishes, All adoration, duty, and observance, All humbleness, all patience and impatience, All purity, all trial, all observance
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So may he rest, his faults lie gently on him!
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It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.
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What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.
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The nature of bad news affects the teller.
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And Caesar shall go forth.
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Titus Andronicus, my lord the Emperor Sends thee this word, that, if thou love thy sons, Let Marcus, Lucius, or thyself, old Titus, Or any one of you, chop off your hand And send it to the King: he for the same Will send thee hither both thy sons alive, And that shall be the ransom for their fault.
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All's well that ends well still the fine's the crown. Whate'er the course, the end is the renown.
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Every good servant does not all commands.
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No, no 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
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God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
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More of your conversation would infect my brain.
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