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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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The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
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The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
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April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
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If we are true to ourselves, we can not be false to anyone.
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I'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both.
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There is a river in Macedon, and there is moreover a river in Monmouth. It is called Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both.
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Bounty, being free itself, thinks all others so.
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The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows. They are polluted off'rings, more abhorred! Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
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Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
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I have thrust myself into this maze, Haply to wive and thrive as best I may.
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Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? And, live we how we can, yet die we must.
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Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
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What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.
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There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
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None can cure their harms by wailing them.
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Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall: Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none: And some condemned for a fault alone.
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Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.
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I am a man more sinned against than sinning
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A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!
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So shaken as we are, so wan with care, Find we a time for frighted peace to pant And breathe short-winded accents of new broils To be commenced in stronds afar remote.
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