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But love that comes too late, Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried, To the great sender turns a sour offense, Crying, 'That's good that's gone.
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
Late
Sender
Gone
Sour
Turns
Pardon
Comes
Offense
Great
Crying
Good
Carried
Love
Slowly
Like
Cry
Remorseful
More quotes by William Shakespeare
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
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The fittest time to corrupt a man's wife is when she's fallen out with her husband.
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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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I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.
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Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow. Come, mourn with me for what I do lament, And put sullen black incontinent. I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land To wash this blood off from my guilty hand. March sadly after. Grace my mournings here In weeping after this untimely bier.
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Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!
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To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof little more than a little is by much too much.
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Cowards die many times before their deaths The valiant never taste of death but once. Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, It seems to me most strange that men should fear Seeing that death, a necessary end, Will come when it will come.
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Let the galled jade wince our withers are unwrung.
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Many can brook the weather that love not the wind.
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I do the wrong, and first begin to brawl. The secret mischiefs that I set abroach I lay unto the grievous charge of others.
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Why, this hath not a finger's dignity.
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A great perturbation in nature, to receive at once the benefit of sleep and do the effects of watching!
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The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
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A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
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And nothing can we call our own but death And that small model of the barren earth Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
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It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.
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Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well. Awake.
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Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
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Bait the hook well. This fish will bite.
William Shakespeare