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So holy and so perfect is my love, And I in such a poverty of grace, That I shall think it a most plenteous crop To glean the broken ears after the man That the main harvest reaps.
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
Thinking
Broken
Reaps
Holy
Crop
Grace
Crops
Shall
Reap
Perfect
Harvest
Men
Main
Love
Ears
Plenteous
Think
Poverty
Glean
More quotes by William Shakespeare
If it be you that stirs these daughters' hearts Against their father, fool me not so much To bear it tamely touch me with noble anger, And let not women's weapons, water drops, Stain my man's cheeks.
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To you your father should be as a god.
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Daffodils, That come before the swallow dares, and take The winds of March with beauty.
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What should we speak of When we are old as you? when we shall hear The rain and wind beat dark December? how, In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse The freezing hours away?
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What's the news? None, my lord, but that the world's grown honest, Then is doomsday near.
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Pray, do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
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O sleep, O gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frightened thee, 1710. That thou no more will weigh my eyelids down, And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
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I had as lief have been myself alone.
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Policy sits above conscience.
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Until I know this sure uncertainty, I'll entertain the offered fallacy.
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[Thine] face is not worth sunburning.
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We must follow, not force Providence.
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All hoods make not monks.
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Frailty, thy name is woman!
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Old fashions please me best I am not so nice To change true rules for odd inventions.
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The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
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Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life
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I have lov'd her ever since I saw her and still I see her beautiful
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For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
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Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.
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