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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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
Find
Whose
Breaths
Velvet
Ever
Months
Leaves
Passage
Love
Wind
Fairs
Passages
Playing
Passing
Unseen
Heaven
Fair
Month
Wish
Lovers
Lover
Spied
Death
Air
Passings
Wanton
May
Sick
Breath
Blossom
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All that glitters is not gold.
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Even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering.
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Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
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I am a kind of burr I shall stick.
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I'll give my jewels for a set of beads, My gorgeous palace for a hermitage, My gay apparel for an almsman's gown, My figured goblets for a dish of wood, My scepter for a palmer's walking staff My subjects for a pair of carved saints and my large kingdom for a little grave.
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Teeth hadst thou in thy head when thou wast born, To signify thou camest to bite the world.
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What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish a very ancient and fishlike smell a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!
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And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, — I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
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Thou weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath.
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Pray, love, remember: and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
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Let us not burden our remembrances with a heaviness that's gone.
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What wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows?
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Good wombs have borne bad sons. -- (Miranda, I:2)
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Thou whoreson, senseless villain!
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Tis the mind that makes the body rich.
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Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.
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I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
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I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
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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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So full of shapes is fancy That it alone is high fantastical.
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