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Our rash faults Make trivial price of serious thing we have, Not knowing them until we know their grave.
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
Faults
Serious
Knowing
Thing
Rash
Make
Trivial
Grave
Graves
Price
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The sense of death is most in apprehension.
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Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?
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With this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature.
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Educated men are so impressive.
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The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
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For who so firm that cannot be seduced?
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I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty
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Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome therefore I will depart unkissed.
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Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.
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By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost It yearns me not if me my garments wear Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.
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That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
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Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.
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When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.
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Barnes are blessings.
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And so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe. And then, from hour to hour, we rot and rot And thereby hangs a tale.
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[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
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I have full cause of weeping, but this heart shall break into a hundred thousand flaws or ere I'll weep.
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Swift as shadow, short as any dream
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O war! thou son of Hell!
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