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And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, Contagious blastments are are most imminent.
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
Morn
Imminent
Dew
Contagious
Liquid
Youth
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My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel I know not where I am nor what I do.
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This fell sergeant, Death, Is strict in his arrest.
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But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
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Give me mine angle, we'll to th' river: there, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws and as I draw them up, I'll think them every one an Antony, And say, 'Ah, ha! are caught!'
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My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
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Art thou afeard To be the same in thine own act and valour As thou art in desire? Wouldst thou have that Which thou esteem'st the ornament of life, And live a coward in thine own esteem, Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,' Like the poor cat i' the adage?
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Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!
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This thing of darkness I acknowlege mine. There is nothing more confining than the prison we don't know we are in.
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I love him for his sake And yet I know him a notorious liar, Think him a great way fool, solely a coward Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him That they take place when virtue's steely bones Looks bleak i' th' cold wind withal, full oft we see Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
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The fortune of us that are the moon's men doth ebb and flow like the sea, being governed, as the sea is, by the moon.
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Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
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Refrain to-night And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence, the next more easy For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either master the devil or throw him out With wondrous potency.
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Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.
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Men from children nothing differ.
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For now I stand as one upon a rock environed with a wilderness of sea, who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, expecting ever when some envious surge will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
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Love is familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love. -
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Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth.
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Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.— Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!
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