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Direct not him whose way himself will choose 'Tis breath not lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
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
Loses
Breaths
Way
Thou
Lack
Direct
Advice
Whose
Choose
Wilt
Lose
Breath
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.
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Great griefs medicine the less.
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Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
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My only love sprung from my only hate.
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For my part, I may speak it to my shame, I have a truant been to chivalry And so I hear he doth account me too.
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A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.
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As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.
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Great floods have flown From simple sources.
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Tears harden lust, though marble wear with raining.
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Is not the truth the truth?
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A ministering angel shall my sister be.
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I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends
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But it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in the most humorous sadness.
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All thy vexations Were but my trials of thy love, and thou Hast strangely stood the test here, afore heaven, I ratify this my rich gift.
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O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a robe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such pain the cap of him that makes him fine Yet keeps his book uncrossed.
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Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
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How poor are they that have have not patients.
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Presume not that I am the thing I was.
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I wonder that you will still be talking. Nobody marks you.
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Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
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