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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?
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
Friend
Wound
Gives
Torture
Alone
Wounds
Makes
Sadness
Enough
Slavery
Must
Slave
Giving
Sweet
Groan
Heart
Deep
Sad
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Unnatural deeds do breed unnatural troubles.
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Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. For whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.
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You will never age for me, nor fade, nor die.
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Thus conscience does make cowards of us all And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought
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This blessèd plot, this earth, this realm, this England This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, . . . This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land.
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Faults that are rich are fair.
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Haste is needful in a desperate case.
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Let them obey that knows not how to rule.
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Not a whit, we defy augury: there's a special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come if it be not to come, it will be now if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.
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Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short he tires betimes that spurs too fast.
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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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The Brightness of her cheek would shame those stars as daylight doth a lamp her eyes in heaven would through the airy region stream so bright that birds would sing, and think it were not night.
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O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first it smells of mortality.
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Swift as shadow, short as any dream
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I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.
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Who is it can read a woman?
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A lover goes toward his beloved as enthusiastically as a schoolboy leaving his books, but when he leaves his girlfriend, he feels as miserable as the schoolboy on his way to school. (Act 2, scene 2)
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Cursed be he that moves my bones.
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We are such stuff that dreams are made of.
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Extremity is the trier of spirits.
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