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His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.
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
Lying
Golden
Larks
Eye
Spring
Buds
Water
Flower
Bud
Thing
Begin
Springs
Every
Lies
Mary
Sweet
Lady
Pretty
Flowers
Steeds
Eyes
Arise
Winking
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Past and to come, seems best things present, worse.
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I rather would entreat thy company To see the wonders of the world abroad, Than, living dully sluggardized at home, Wear out thy youth with shapeless idleness.
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His life was gentle and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!
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Who is here so vile that will not love his country?
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the fire seven times tried this seven times tried that judgement is that did never choose amiss some there be that shadows kiss such have but a shadows bliss, there be fool alive, i wis silverd o'er, and so was this Take what wife you will to bed I will ever be your head. So be gone you are sped.
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Life... is a paradise to what we know of death.
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Sufferance is the badge of all our tribe.
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Thy food is such As hath been belch'd on by infected lungs.
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We fail! But screw your courage to the sticking-place, And we'll not fail.
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Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.
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Death rock me asleep.
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Beauty itself doth of itself persuade the eyes of men without an orator.
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For where is any author in the world Teaches such beauty as a woman's eye?
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So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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Children wish fathers looked but with their eyes fathers that children with their judgment looked and either may be wrong.
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Mercutio: If love be rough with you, be rough with love.
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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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I am thy father's spirit Doom'd for a certain term to walk the night And, for the day, confin'd to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in my days of nature, Are burnt and purg'd away.
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How soar sweet music is, when time is broke, and no proportion kept!
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Grief best is pleased with grief's society.
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