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The heart hath treble wrong When it is barr'd the aidance of the tongue.
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
Hath
Tongue
Wrong
Heart
Barr
Chafing
Treble
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Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands, But more when envy breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.
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I will speak daggers to her, but use none.
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To saucy doubts and fears.
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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
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Ay, but to die and go we know not where To lie in cold obstrution and to rot This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods or to reside In thrilling regions of thick-ribbed ice To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendant world.
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A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting The perfume and suppliance of a minute No more.
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She is mine own, And I as rich in having such a jewel As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl, The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
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This fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest.
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Youth to itself rebels, though none else near.
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Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth.
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I'll read enough When I do see the very book indeed Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.
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These cardinals trifle with me I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.
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Take you me for a sponge?
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I am now of all humors that have showed themselves humors since the old days of goodman Adam to the pupil age of this present twelve o'clock at midnight.
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Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
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That thou art blamed shall not be thy defect, For slander's mark was ever yet the fair The ornament of beauty is suspect, A crow that flies in heaven's sweetest air.
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I crave fit disposition for my wife Due reference of place, and exhibition With such accommodation, and besort, As levels with her breeding.
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Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan For that deep wound it gives my friend and me Is't not enough to torture me alone, But slave to slavery my sweet'st friend must be?
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Put money in thy purse.
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Be collected. No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart There's no harm done.
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