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O, I have suffered With those that I saw suffer! a brave vessel (Who had no doubt some noble creature in her) Dashed all to pieces! O, the cry did knock Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perished!
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
Doubt
Suffer
Dashed
Suffering
Souls
Perished
Noble
Shipwreck
Poor
Brave
Tempest
Soul
Cry
Vessel
Heart
Creatures
Knock
Saws
Suffered
Pieces
Creature
More quotes by William Shakespeare
I hold my peace, sir? no No, I will speak as liberal as the north Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.
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What Time hath scanted men in hair, he hath given them in wit.
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Preposterous ass, that never read so far to know the cause why music was ordain'd! Was it not to refresh the mind of man, after his studies or his usual pain?
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Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
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Short summers lightly have a forward spring.
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The truest poetry is the most feigning.
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Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
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I think the devil will not have me damned, lest the oil that's in me should set hell on fire.
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Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
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Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house as your pearl in your foul oyster.
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I will chide no breather in the world but myself, against whom I know most faults.
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I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
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Let the galled jade wince our withers are unwrung.
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In limited professions there's boundless theft.
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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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Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingratitudes: Those scraps are good deeds past, which are devour'd As fast as they are made, forgot as soon as done.
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There's nothing in this world can make me joy.
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For so work the honey bees, creatures that by a rule in nature teach the act of order to a peopled kingdom.
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So full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.
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Why, what's the matter, That you have such a February face, So full of frost, of storm and cloudiness?
William Shakespeare