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So now I have confessed that he is thine, And I my self am mortgaged to thy will, My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine, Thou wilt restore to be my comfort still.
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
Still
Sad
Self
Restore
Sadness
Thou
Mortgaged
Mines
Confessed
Mine
Forfeit
Comfort
Wilt
Stills
Thine
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So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.
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O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
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Good wine needs no bush.
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I'll note you in my book of memory.
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Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
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Flesh and blood, You, brother mine, that entertain'd ambition, Expell'd remorse and nature, who, with Sebastian- Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong- Would here have kill'd your king, I do forgive thee, Unnatural though thou art.
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But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool.
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Jesu, Jesu, the mad days that I have spent! And to see how many of my old acquaintance are dead!
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Thine eyes I love, and they as pitying me, Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain, Have put on black, and loving mourners be, Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain.
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Never shame to hear what you have nobly done
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Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.
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Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty.
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We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.
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Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try.
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... And death unloads thee.
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T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
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Is there no pity sitting in the clouds That sees into the bottom of my grief? O sweet my mother, cast me not away! Delay this marriage for a month, a week, Or if you do not, make the bridal bed In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
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I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me
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For sorrow ends not, when it seemeth done.
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Melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
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