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If thou art rich, thou art poor for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.
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
Rich
Bows
Poor
Ass
Death
Riches
Art
Thou
Back
Thee
Like
Heavy
Whose
Journey
Consumerism
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The urging of that word, judgment, hath bred a kind of remorse in me.
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By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word approve me, lord.
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There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.
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There was a star danced, and under that was I born.
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I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As is a man were author of himself And knew no other kin.
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No worse a husband than the best of men.
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Fie, fie upon her! There's language in her eye, her cheek, her lip, Nay, her foot speaks her wanton spirits look out At every joint and motive of her body.
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Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
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O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world, That has such people in't!
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Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.
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What the great ones do, the less will prattle of
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My lord, they say five moons were seen to-night-- Four fixed, and the fifth did whirl about The other four in wondrous motion.
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Like Patience gazing on kings' graves, and smiling Extremity out of act.
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I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
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Dissembling harlot, thou art false in all!
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Therefore the moon, the governess of floods, Pale in her anger washes all the air, That rheumatic diseases do abound And through this distemperature we see The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose.
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Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.
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The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar but not gone.
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A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.
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But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
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