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Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.
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
Fields
Head
Flourished
Like
Lily
Lilies
Perish
Mistress
Hang
Field
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As good luck would have it.
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Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing itself unaccommodated man is no more than such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.
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If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.
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Full of wise saws and modern instances.
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Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground, and tell sad stories of the death of kings... All murdered for within the hollow crown that rounds the mortal temples of a king, keeps Death his court... and with a little pin bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
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One pain is lessened by another's anguish.
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Grace and remembrance be to you both.
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Here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
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Who is here so vile that will not love his country?
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Refrain to-night And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence, the next more easy For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either master the devil or throw him out With wondrous potency.
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Is she kind as she is fair?
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Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
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So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
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The due of honor in no point omit.
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Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long / To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
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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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And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
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Thou art a slave, whom fortune's tender arm With favour never clasp'd but bred a dog.
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I have shot mine arrow o'er the house And hurt my brother.
William Shakespeare