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Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
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
Leaves
Boughs
Fruit
Robbery
Whose
Mellow
Tree
Shook
Call
Bend
Left
Bare
Night
Weather
Storm
Hangings
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Women speak two languages - one of which is verbal.
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Summer's lease hath all too short a date.
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This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler and retails his wares.
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Light seeking light doth light of light beguile: So, ere you find where light in darkness lies, Your light grows dark by losing of your eyes.
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I go, I go, look how I go, swifter than an arrow from a bow
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What, shall one of us, That struck for the foremost man of all this world But for supporting robbers--shall we now Contaminate our fingers with base bribes, And sell the mighty space of our large honors For so much trash as may be grasped thus?
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Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.
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Ambition, the soldier's virtue.
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Were it good To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast? to set so rich a main On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? It were not good.
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And in some perfumes there is more delight than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know that music hath a far more pleasing sound.
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The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
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Give sorrow words the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.
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There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
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Time is the king of men.
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Is it possible that love should of a sudden take such a hold?
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Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.
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You may my Glories and my State depose, But not my Griefes still am I King of those.
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Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.
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I stalk about her door, like a strange soul upon the Stygian banks staying for waftage.
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Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
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