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Mend when thou canst be better at thy leisure.
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
Better
Canst
Mend
Leisure
Thou
More quotes by William Shakespeare
My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.
William Shakespeare
You undergo too strict a paradox, Striving to make an ugly deed look fair.
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The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
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A great while ago the world begun, With hey, ho, the wind and the rain But that's all one, our play is done, And we'll strive to please you every day.
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for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
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And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.
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We have seen better days.
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Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house as your pearl in your foul oyster.
William Shakespeare
My crown is in my heart, not on my head not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.
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Yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day.
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In time we hate that which we often fear.
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What is more miserable than discontent?
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The sun with one eye vieweth all the world.
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I always thought it was both impious and unnatural that such immanity and bloody strife should reign among professors of one faith.
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I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.
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Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile Filths savour but themselves.
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When the sun shines let foolish gnats make sport, But creep in crannies when he hides his beams.
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Let there be gall enough in thy ink, though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.
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Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
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Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.
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