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I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.
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
Marvellous
Fashion
Face
Faces
Methinks
Must
Monsieur
Barber
Barbers
Hairy
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Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.
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A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross.
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No, no 'tis all men's office to speak patience To those that wring under the load of sorrow, But no man's virtue nor sufficiency To be so moral when he shall endure The like himself. Therefore give me no counsel: My griefs cry louder than advertisement.
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Haste is needful in a desperate case.
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To sleep perchance to dream
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She is a woman, therefore to be won.
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A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.
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With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.
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Men of few words are the best men. (3.2.41)
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Give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.
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Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find.
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See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
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Preferred three hours quicker over one moment late.
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And then he drew a dial from his poke, And looking with lack-lustre eye, Says very wisely, 'It is ten o'clock: Thus we may see', Quoth he, 'how the world wags: 'Tis but an hour ago since it was nine, And after one hour more 'twill be eleven And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe, And then from hour to hour we rot and rot.
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'Tis thought the king is dead we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.
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The fewer men, the greater share of honor.
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Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
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I am the Prince of Wales and think not, Percy, To share with me in glory any more: Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere.
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O mischief, thou art swift to enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
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I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
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