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There should be hours for necessities, not for delights times to repair our nature with comforting repose, and not for us to waste these times.
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
Hours
Necessities
Times
Repair
Nature
Delights
Repose
Comforting
Bed
Delight
Waste
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If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.
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Good old grandsire ... we shall be joyful of thy company.
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Like the lily That once was mistress of the field and flourished, I'll hang my head and perish.
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Love's heralds should be thoughts, Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams Driving back shadows over low'ring hills. Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love, And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
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Things without all remedy should be without regard: what's done is done.
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Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.
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I say there is no darkness but ignorance.
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As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods they kill us for their sport.
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Here will be an old abusing of God's patience and the king's English.
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New customs, Though they be never so ridiculous (Nay, let em be unmanly), yet are followed.
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Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma or a hideous dream.
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Throw physic to the dogs I'll none of it.
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Thou art a soul in bliss but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.
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That truth should be silent I had almost forgot. (Enobarbus)
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Conscience is a thousand swords.
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Your if is the only peacemaker much virtue in if.
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Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
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My falcon now is sharp and passing empty, and till she stoop she must not be full-gorged, for then she never looks upon her lure.
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Et tu Brute! (You too, Brutus!)
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The cunning livery of hell.
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