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To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy.
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
False
Sorrow
Office
Show
Easy
Shows
Doe
Unfelt
Men
Hypocrisy
More quotes by William Shakespeare
If music be the food of love, play on.
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Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.
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I have of late--but wherefore I know not--lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercise.
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Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short he tires betimes that spurs too fast.
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Let me not to the marriage of true minds
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Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit All with me's meet that I can fashion fit.
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I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.
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Well, I must be patient there is no fettering of authority.
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Let the end try the man.
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The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.
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Tongues I'll hang on every tree That shall civil sayings show. . . .
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I take thee at thy word: Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
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Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.
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Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
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Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
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O, spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!
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One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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I have not slept one wink.
William Shakespeare