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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.
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
Sun
Draw
Dove
Therefore
Faster
Beam
Thoughts
Driving
Swift
Heralds
Wind
Lows
Shadows
Doves
Times
Ten
Ring
Glide
Back
Wings
Hath
Nimble
Love
Draws
Hills
Beams
Shadow
Rings
Cupid
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I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.
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I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with grieving.
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought
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I am a kind of burr I shall stick.
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Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love.
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We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever, As rav'nous fishes, do a vessel follow That is new-trimmed, but benefit no further Than vainly longing.
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O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!
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Kindness nobler ever than revenge.
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I almost die for food, and let me have it!
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The wheel is come full circle.
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For now they kill me with a living death.
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If it be aught toward the general good, Set honor in one eye and death i' th' other, And I will look on both indifferently For let the gods so speed me as I love The name of honor more than I fear death.
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Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.
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Take you me for a sponge?
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Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
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We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.
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A fusty nut with no kernel.
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