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And makes me poor indeed.
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
Poverty
Poor
Makes
Indeed
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Affliction may one day smile again and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!.
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If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
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The Dear father Would with his daughter speak, commands her service Are they inform'd of this?
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I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right, do a little wrong.
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Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.
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Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars That make ambition virtue.
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I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.
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There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.
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Discomfort guides my tongue And bids me speak of nothing but despair.
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Oh, that way madness lies let me shun that.
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No sooner met but they looked no sooner looked but they loved no sooner loved but they sighed no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage.
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And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.
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The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud if our faults whipped them not and our crimes would despair if they were not cherished by our own virtues.
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This is a gift that I have, simple, simple a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.
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Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this sun of York And all the clouds that lour'd upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
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You dull ass will not mend his pace with beating.
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I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.
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Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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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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Extreme fear can neither fight nor fly.
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