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What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye
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
Love
Feed
Mines
Mine
High
Eye
Makes
Cannot
Power
Mounts
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You speak like a green girl / unsifted in such perilous circumstances.
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He hath disgrac'd me and hind'red me half a million laugh'd at my losses, mock'd at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my bargains, cooled my friends, heated my enemies. And what's his reason? I am a Jew.
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That time of year thou mayst in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west, Which by-and-by black night doth take away.
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The loyalty, well held to fools, does make Our faith mere folly.
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Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.
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Love's not love When it is mingled with regards that stand Aloof from th' entire point.
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Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace.
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Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.
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To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess
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Age, I do abhor thee, youth, I do adore thee.
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I am asham'd that women are so simple To offer war where they should kneel for peace.
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Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
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Two lovely berries moulded on one stem So, with two seeming bodies, but one heart.
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The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
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To be furious, is to be frighted out of fear.
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Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.
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We will meet and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
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At Christmas, I no more desire a rose.
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As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods they kill us for their sport.
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Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
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