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O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse.
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
Nature
Eyelids
Slumber
Insomnia
Forgetfulness
Nurse
Soft
Gentle
Sleepiness
Sleep
Canopy
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The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.
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Is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
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The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
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He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get.
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Ah me, how weak a thing The heart of woman is!
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Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech.
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I will go wash And when my face is fair, you shall perceive Whether I blush or no.
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All of Creation’s a farce. Man was born as a joke. In his head his reason is buffeted Like wind-blown smoke. Life is a game. Everyone ridicules everyone else. But he who has the last laugh Laughs longest.
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The dullness of the fool is the whetstone of the wits.
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A very little little let us do And all is done.
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Go, write it in a martial hand be curst and brief it is no matter how witty, so it be eloquent and fun of invention: taunt him with the licence of ink: if thou thou'st him some thrice, it shall not be amiss and as many lies as will lie in thy shee.
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My liege, and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?
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The mind of guilt is full of scorpions.
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Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for loan oft loses both itself and friend, and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
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O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you. . . . She is the fairies’ midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the forefinger of an alderman, Drawn with a team of little atomi Athwart men’s noses as they lie asleep.
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T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
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My soul is in the sky.
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Neither a borrower nor a lender be.
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