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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
Bird
Wrecks
Gusts
Sorrow
Woe
Seaman
Fields
Foul
Seamen
Ever
Unto
Morn
Like
Flaws
Wreck
Birds
Tempest
Red
Shepherds
Field
Herds
More quotes by William Shakespeare
If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.
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I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
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A man may fish with the worm that hath eat of a king, and eat of the fish that hath fed of that worm
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These cardinals trifle with me I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.
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O! she doth teach the torches to burn bright It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. - Romeo -
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Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.
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Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.
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If there be devils, would I were a devil, To live and burn in everlasting fire, So I might have your company in hell, But to torment you with my bitter tongue!
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Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He's more secure to keep it shut than shown For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind, Blows dust in others' eye, to spread itself And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear To stop the air would hurt them.
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Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.
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Words spoken can not be recalled so think twice before you speak.
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The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name such tricks hath strong imagination.
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The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.
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Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?
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what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes
William Shakespeare
Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops. Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.
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O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.
William Shakespeare
Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
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Good wine needs no bush.
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Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
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