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Here's flowers for you Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
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
Middle
Rises
Age
Hot
Given
Flowers
Savoury
Men
Bed
Mints
Think
Summer
Marigolds
Thinking
Sun
Lavender
Flower
Mint
Goes
Weeping
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I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
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Parting is such sweet sorrow
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Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off ... Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
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If you love an addle egg as well as you love an idle head, you would eat chickens i' th' shell.
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He that is thy friend indeed, He will help thee in thy need: If thou sorrow, he will weep If thou wake, he cannot sleep: Thus of every grief in heart He with thee does bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe.
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The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.
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Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
William Shakespeare
A miracle. Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light I take thee for pity. Beatrice: I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Benedick: Peace. I will stop your mouth.
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She is a woman, therefore to be won.
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To beguile the time, look like the time. Bear welcome in your eye, your hand, your tongue.
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Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind.
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I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.
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I am sure care's an enemy to life.
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Better conquest never canst thou make than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts against giddy, loose suggestions.
William Shakespeare
For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.
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Demetrius: Villain, what hast thou done? Aaron: That which thou canst not undo. Chiron: Thou hast undone our mother. Aaron: Villain, I have done thy mother.
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And where the offense is, let the great axe fall.
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There's small choice in rotten apples.
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Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!
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Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller.
William Shakespeare