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When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.
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
Doth
Tender
Close
Dying
Eyes
Eye
Death
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What my tongue dares not that my heart shall say
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Though men can cover crimes with bold, stern looks, poor women's faces are their own faults' books.
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Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service
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So, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore, I scant this breathing courtesy.
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Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
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The due of honor in no point omit.
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We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.
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Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
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we are the lords of all eternity
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It is meant that noble minds keep ever with their likes for who so firm that cannot be seduced.
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Yet do I fear thy nature It is too full o' the milk of human kindness To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great Art not without ambition, but without The illness should attend it: what thou wouldst highly, That wouldst thou holily wouldst not play false, And yet wouldst wrongly win.
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Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
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Now my charms are all o'erthrown.
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Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.
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At Christmas I no more desire a rose Than wish a snow in May's new-fangled mirth But like of each thing that in season grows.
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To take arms against a sea of troubles.
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Thou art a soul in bliss but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
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Put money in thy purse.
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Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition
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The poor world is almost six thousand years old, and in all this time there was not any man died in his own person, videlicet, in a love-cause.
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