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But thou art fair, and at thy birth, dear boy, Nature and Fortune join'd to make thee great: Of Nature's gifts thou mayst with lilies boast, And with the half-blown rose but Fortune, O!
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
Dear
Join
Birth
Gifts
Boys
Fairs
Half
Fair
Mayst
Art
Thou
Lilies
Nature
Thee
Blown
Great
Rose
Boast
Make
Fortune
Fairness
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Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.
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I desire you in friendship, and I will one way or other make you amends.
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I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
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Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.
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A turn or two I'll walk To still my beating mind.
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Before the curing of a strong disease, Even in the instant of repair and health, The fit is strongest. Evils that take leave, On their departure most of all show evil.
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All that glisters is not gold Often have you heard that told.
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Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago, If thou but think'st him wronged, and mak'st his ear A stranger to thy thoughts.
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This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.
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Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
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You are not wood, you are not stones, but men And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
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Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice.
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Though patience be a tired mare, yet she will plod.
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Nothing emboldens sin so much as mercy.
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Fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger.
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This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, to love that well which thou must leave ere long
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I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.
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Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends.
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There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done.
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Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
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