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Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes then little strength rings out the doleful knell.
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
Weight
Knell
Strength
Ringing
Goes
Bell
Littles
Bells
Little
Rings
Like
Heavy
Grief
Sorrow
Doleful
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I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
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Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
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Think'st thou I'd make a life of jealousy, To follow still the changes of the moon With fresh suspicions? No to be once in doubt Is once to be resolved.
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I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
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A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.
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All that glitters is not gold.
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Thou unfit for any place but hell.
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And my poor fool is hanged! No, no, no life! Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Never, Never, Never, Never, Never! Pray you, undo this button.
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Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably.
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Who is here so vile that will not love his country?
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Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.— Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!
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I have no way and therefore want no eyes I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seen our means secure us, and our mere defects prove our commodities.
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There's place and means for every man alive.
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Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy.
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Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish her election, Sh'ath sealed thee for herself.
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Who has a book of all that monarchs do, He's more secure to keep it shut than shown For vice repeated is like the wand'ring wind, Blows dust in others' eye, to spread itself And yet the end of all is bought thus dear, The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear To stop the air would hurt them.
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She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.
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The earth, that is nature's mother, is her tomb.
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She's good, being gone.
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