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Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
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
Littles
Fell
Cupid
Little
Wounds
Bolt
Love
Western
Maidens
Mark
Bolts
Flower
Idleness
Call
Wound
Upon
Purple
Pansies
White
Milk
Midsummer
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Well, God give them wisdom that have it and those that are fools, let them use their talents.
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Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
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Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile
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O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
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Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine, Whose weakness, married to thy stronger state, Makes me with thy strength to communicate.
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The attempt and not the deed confounds us.
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They are fairies he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch no man their works must eye.
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Give me my robe, put on my crown I have Immortal longings in me.
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Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight which therein works a miracle in Nature, making them lightest that wear most of it: so are those crisped snaky golden locks which make such wanton gambols with the wind upon supposed fairness, often known to be the dowry of a second head, the skull that bred them in the sepulchre.
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An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
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The strawberry grows underneath the nettle And wholesome berries thrive and ripen best Neighbour'd by fruit of baser quality.
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I am declined Into the vale of years.
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If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.
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Thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.
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But I am constant as the Northern Star, Of whose true fixed and resting quality There is no fellow in the firmament.
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Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
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For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
William Shakespeare
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
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I am a man more sinned against than sinning
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Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
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