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Thy best of rest is sleep, And that thou oft provok'st yet grossly fear'st Thy death, which is no more.
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
Thou
Rest
Sleep
Fear
Death
Best
Grossly
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Don't waste your love on somebody, who doesn't value it.
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You are my true and honourable wife As dear to me as the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.
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Give thanks for what you are today and go on fighting for what you gone be tomorrow
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Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee.
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Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues Pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.
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Nor aught so good but strained from that fair use, Revolts from true birth stumbling on abuse.
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Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?
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If the boy have not a woman's gift To rain a shower of commanded tears, An onion will do well for such a shift.
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The love that follows us sometime is our trouble, which still we thank as love.
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Love sought is good, but given unsought, is better.
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To fear the worst oft cures the worst.
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I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.
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My will enkindled by mine eyes and ears, Two traded pilots 'twixt the dangerous shores Of will and judgment.
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Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
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Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
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Wish chastely, and love dearly.
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Methought I heard a voice cry 'Sleep no more! Macbeth does murder sleep', the innocent sleep, Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleeve of care, The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath, Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, Chief nourisher in life's feast...
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A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences.
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He's mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf.
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An old black ram is tupping your white ewe
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