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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
Imminent
Dew
Contagious
Liquid
Youth
Morn
More quotes by William Shakespeare
He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get. I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop, Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself: So I, to find a mother and a brother, In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.
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Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.
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A lover's eyes will gaze an eagle blind.
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Now, good digestion wait on appetite, and health on both!
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It is thyself, mine own self's better part Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim, My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
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So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.
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The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
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I dote on his very absence.
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I like this place and could willingly waste my time in it.
William Shakespeare
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.
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Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!
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My love is thaw'd Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was
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Say, what abridgement have you for this evening? What masque, what music? How shall we beguile The lazy time if not with some delight?
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I must have liberty Withal, as large a charter as the wind, To blow on whom I please, for so fools have.
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I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!
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Love adds a precious seeing to the eye.
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Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
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He that is truly dedicated to war hath no self-love
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To this urn let those repair That are either true or fair For these dead birds sigh a prayer.
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Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
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