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What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish a very ancient and fishlike smell a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!
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
Men
Rivers
Smells
Like
Ancient
Lakes
Sea
Fishing
Dead
Fish
Strange
Fishes
Alive
Boat
Poor
John
Kind
Smell
Newest
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Passion makes the will lord of the reason.
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Cursed be he that moves my bones.
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The blood weeps from my heart when I do shape, In forms imaginary, th' unguided days And rotten times that you shall look upon When I am sleeping with my ancestors.
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If thou remeber'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov'd
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Heaven truly knows that thou art false as hell.
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Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow.
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Love`s reason`s without reason
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O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world, And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice, Which scorns a modern invocation.
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Come what sorrow can, It cannot countervail the exchange of joy, That one short minute gives me in her sight
William Shakespeare
What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
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I scorn you, scurvy companion.
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I would fain die a dry death.
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If reasons were as plentiful as blackberries, I would give no man a reason upon compulsion.
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Where the greater malady is fixed, The lesser is scarce felt.
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I do not hate a proud man, as I do hate the engendering of toads.
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And the more pity that great folk should have count'nance in this world to drown or hang themselves more than their even-Christen.
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Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil With them forgive yourself.
William Shakespeare
Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
William Shakespeare
O me, you juggler, you canker-blossom, you thief of love!
William Shakespeare
Beware the ides of March.
William Shakespeare