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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
Men
Dogs
Deeds
Carrion
Smell
Groaning
Cry
Burial
Dog
Havoc
Shall
Deed
War
Foul
Earth
Loose
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The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
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Well could he ride, and often men would say, That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes! And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.
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Man and wife, being two, are one in love.
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Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest.
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds
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Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.
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I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.
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Men of few words are the best men. (3.2.41)
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Take it in what sense thou wilt.
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Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
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My hands are of your color, but I shame to wear a heart so white.
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Time hath not yet so dried this blood of mine, Nor age so eat up my invention, Nor fortune made such havoc of my means, Nor my bad life reft me so much of friends, But they shall find awaked in such a kind Both strength of limb and policy of mind, Ability in means, and choice of friends, To quit me of them throughly.
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He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
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Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service
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Falsehood falsehood cures
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And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?
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There was a star danced, and under that was I born.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
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Ay beauty's princely majesty is such, Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.
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