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They say, the tongues of dying men Enforce attention, like deep harmony Where words are scarce, they're seldom spent in vain For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain.
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
Words
Vain
Pain
Tongue
Truth
Breathe
Men
Harmony
Like
Spent
Enforce
Dying
Tongues
Deep
Scarce
Attention
Seldom
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Lovers can do their amorous rites by their own beauties
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Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.
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Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.
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Listen to many, speak to a few.
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I am not of that feather, to shake off my friend when he must need me
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Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.
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With this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature.
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I heard a bustling rumor like a fray, And the wind blows it from the Capitol.
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This day's black fate on more days doth depend This but begins the woe, others must end.
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The force of his own merit makes his way-a gift that heaven gives for him.
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That but this blow Might be the be-all and the end-all here, But here, upon this bank and shoal of time, We'ld jump the life to come.
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Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog.
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To die: - to sleep: No more and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished.
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Come give us a taste of your quality.
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Unquiet meals make ill digestions.
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...lest too light winning make the prize light.
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Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
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Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.
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For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.
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The whirligig of time brings in his revenges.
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