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The devil is a gentleman.
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
Gentleman
Devil
Evil
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My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
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For now they kill me with a living death.
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Mind your speech a little lest you should mar your fortunes.
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Lady, with me, with me thy fortune lies.
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Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.
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O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
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Unquiet meals make ill digestions.
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Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men As hounds, and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs, Shoughs, water-rugs, and demi-wolves, are 'clept All by the name of dogs: the valued file Distinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle, The housekeeper, the hunter, every one According to the gift which bounteous nature Hath in him closed.
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Thou shouldst not have been old till thou hadst been wise.
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Lay her i' the earth: And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia! QUEEN GERTRUDE. Sweets to the sweet: farewell!
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This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler and retails his wares.
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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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What: is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful?
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An honest tale speeds best being plainly told.
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Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.
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Wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes, but presently prevent the ways to wail.
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If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening.
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Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.
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The weakest goes to the wall.
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And do so, love, yet when they have devised What strainèd touches rhetoric can lend, Thou, truly fair, wert truly sympathized In true plain words by thy true-telling friend And their gross painting might be better used Where cheeks need blood in thee it is abused.
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