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What: is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful?
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
Taming
Larks
Feathers
Precious
Creatures
Animal
Beautiful
Lark
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Out of this nettle - danger - we pluck this flower - safety.
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For grief is crowned with consolation.
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People’s good deeds we write in water. The evil deeds are etched in brass.
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What man art thou that, thus bescreened in night, So stumblest on my counsel? *Who are you? Why do you hide in the darkness and listen to my private thoughts?*
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Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.
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Too early seen unknown, and known too late!
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The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.
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Fight valiantly to-day and yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valor.
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But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes, Feed'st thy light's flame with self-substantial fuel, Making a famine where abundance lies, Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel.
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To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.
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A woman's thought runs before her actions.
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Mine eyes Were not in fault, for she was beautiful Mine ears, that heard her flattery nor my heart, That thought her like her seeming. It had been vicious To have mistrusted her.
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The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
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Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death’s.
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Love that we cannot have is the one that lasts the longest,hurts the deepest,but feels the strongest
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I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
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What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand?
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Under loves heavy burden do I sink. --Romeo
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Parting is such sweet sorrow
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