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Like a red morn that ever yet betokened, Wreck to the seaman, tempest to the field, Sorrow to the shepherds, woe unto the birds, Gusts and foul flaws to herdmen and to herds.
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
Like
Flaws
Wreck
Birds
Tempest
Red
Shepherds
Field
Herds
Bird
Wrecks
Gusts
Sorrow
Woe
Seaman
Fields
Foul
Seamen
Ever
Unto
Morn
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Virtue is chok'd with foul ambition
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But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool.
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For in that sleep of death what dreams may come.
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Thus we play the fool with the time and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.
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A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.
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I see men's judgments are A parcel of their fortunes and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike.
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Their understanding Begins to swell and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy.
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It is a wise father that knows his own child.
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I would we were all of one mind, and one mind good.
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Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.
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O, it is excellent To have a giant's strength but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant.
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Set honour in one eye and death i' the other, And I will look on both indifferently.
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Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death.
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We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.
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They have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor
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Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
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Henceforth, I'll bear Affliction till it do cry out itself, 'Enough, enough, and die.
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In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
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I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.(IAGO,ActI,SceneI)
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