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The gloomy shade of death.
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
Death
Gloomy
Shade
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Death lies on her like an untimely frost.
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I despised my arrival on this earth and I despise my departure it is a tragedy.
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Get thee glass eyes, and like a scurvy politician, seem to see the things thou dost not.
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You are a tedious fool.
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Hereditary sloth instructs me.
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The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.
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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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For conspiracy, I know not how it tastes, though it be dished For me to try how.
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A woman's thought runs before her actions.
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And what art thou, thou idol Ceremony? What kind of god art thou, that suffer'st more Of mortal griefs than do thy worshippers?
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Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.
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A dream itself is but a shadow.
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To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.
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Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight which therein works a miracle in Nature, making them lightest that wear most of it: so are those crisped snaky golden locks which make such wanton gambols with the wind upon supposed fairness, often known to be the dowry of a second head, the skull that bred them in the sepulchre.
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There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
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Truth will come to sight murder cannot be hid long.
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Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls Conscience is but a work that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law!
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Our praises are our wages.
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Suit the action to the word, the word to the action.
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On a day - alack the day! - Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair Playing in the wanton air
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