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That strain again! It had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour! Enough no more: 'Tis not so sweet as it was before.
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
Came
Violet
Upon
Strain
Sound
Bank
Fall
Stealing
Enough
Breathe
Giving
Ears
Odour
Love
Dying
Violets
Like
Sweet
Breathes
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Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.
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And send him many years of sunshine days!
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By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me.
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Love is too young to know what conscience is.
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Come, seeling night, Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day, And with thy bloody and invisible hand Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond Which keeps me pale. Light thickens, and the crow Makes wing to th' rooky wood. Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, While night's black agents to their prey do rouse.
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My glass shall not persuade me I am old, So long as youth and thou are of one date But when in thee time's furrows I behold, Then look I death my days should expiate.
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Out of her favour, where I am in love.
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Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun it shines everywhere.
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The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.
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Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune's champion, that dost never fight But where her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety.
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My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.
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A very ancient and fish-like smell.
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'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
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Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
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That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the roof to the foundation, And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges, In heaps and piles of ruin.
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Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.
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I will despair, and be at enmity With cozening hope.
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If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.
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