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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
Sound
Bank
Fall
Stealing
Enough
Breathe
Giving
Ears
Odour
Love
Dying
Violets
Like
Sweet
Breathes
Came
Violet
Upon
Strain
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Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damned Dane, Drink off this potion!
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[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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So we'll live, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh at gilded butterflies.
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Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious thing we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave.
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See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
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A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
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a girl takes too much time to love and a few seconds to hate. but a boy takes a few seconds to love and too much time to hate.
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Haply a woman's voice may do some good When articles too nicely urged be stood on.
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Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail, And say there is no sin but to be rich And being rich, my virtue then shall be To say there is no vice but beggary
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Nothing 'gainst Times scythe can make defence.
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Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty.
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Then know, that I have little wealth to lose. A man I am, crossed with adversity My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have.
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All that glitters is not gold.
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You are an alchemist make gold of that.
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Rest you fair, good signior Your worship was the last man in our mouths.
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By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate And with my hand I seal my true heart's love
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The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.
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