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Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
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
Sailor
Fatal
Deep
Ready
Mast
Lives
Masts
Every
Tumble
Life
Bowels
Like
Drunken
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Merrily, merrily shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
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I pray thee cease thy counsel, Which falls into mine ears as profitless as water in a sieve.
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Ingratitude is monstrous.
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All that glitters is not gold.
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Well, God's above all and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
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A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yond justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief?
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We cannot all be masters.
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Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.
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Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
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While we lie tumbling in the hay.
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There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
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He that dies this year is quit for the next.
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A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
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When workmen strive to do better than well, they do confound their skill in covetousness.
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Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.
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What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.
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Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.
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Thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.
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O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father and refuse thy name Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love... 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.
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Laughing faces do not mean that there is absence of sorrow! But it means that they have the ability to deal with it
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