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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
Comes
Offense
Great
Crying
Good
Carried
Love
Slowly
Like
Cry
Remorseful
Late
Sender
Gone
Sour
Turns
Pardon
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The glowworm shows the matin to be near And gins to pale his uneffectual fire.
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for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
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The private wound is deepest. O time most accurst, 'Mongst all foes that a friend should be the worst!
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And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, — I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
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Let me have men about me that are fat... Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
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Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
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You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.
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Omission to do what is necessary Seals a commission to a blank of danger And danger, like an ague, subtly taints Even then when we sit idly in the sun.
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Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods, Nettled and stung with pismires[nettles], when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.
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We must every one be a man of his own fancy.
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Thou shalt be free As mountain winds: but then exactly do All points of my command.
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And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
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Well-apparel'd April on the heel Of limping Winter treads.
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I go, I go, look how I go, swifter than an arrow from a bow
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Adieu! I have too grieved a heart to take a tedious leave.
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Women being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the walls.
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But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!
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Death is my son-in-law. Death is my heir. My daughter he hath wedded. I will die, And leave him all. Life, living, all is Death’s.
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There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently
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