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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
Love
Slowly
Like
Cry
Remorseful
Late
Sender
Gone
Sour
Turns
Pardon
Comes
Offense
Great
Crying
Good
Carried
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A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
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Hardness ever of hardness is mother.
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The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
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I will make a Star-chamber matter of it.
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Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.
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Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
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It will have blood, they say blood will have blood.
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Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze. I will not budge for no man's pleasure.
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How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank Here we will sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears soft stillness, and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony
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Pain pays the income of each precious thing.
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My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.
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Not all the water in the rough rude sea Can wash the balm from an anointed King.
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