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Weep not, sweet queen, for trickling tears are vain.
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
Vain
Tears
Sweet
Trickling
Weep
Queen
Queens
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What a fool honesty is.
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You speak like a green girl / unsifted in such perilous circumstances.
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By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death will seize the doctor too.
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Who alone suffers suffers most i' th' mind, Leaving free things and happy shows behind But then the mind much sufferance doth o'erskip When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.
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Though now this grained face of mine be hid In sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow, And all the conduits of my blood froze up, Yet hath my night of life some memory, My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left, My dull deaf ears a little use to hear.
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Go to you bosom: Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know.
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There is flattery in friendship.
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I hold my peace, sir? no No, I will speak as liberal as the north Let heaven and men and devils, let them all, All, all, cry shame against me, yet I'll speak.
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How hard it is to hide the sparks of Nature!
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The pow'r that I have on you is to spare you The malice towards you to forgive you.
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The iron tongue of Midnight hath told twelve lovers, to bed 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall outstep the coming morn as much as we this night over-watch'd.
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Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious thing we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave.
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Sycorax has grown into a hoop
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I wonder men dare trust themselves with men.
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This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
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Some there be that shadows kiss Such have but a shadow's bliss.
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QUINCE Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman I have a beard coming.
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What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
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They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.
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I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
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