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Speak on, but be not over-tedious.
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
Speech
Speak
Tedious
Boredom
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This world to me is like a lasting storm,Whirring me from my friends.
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The peace of heaven is theirs that lift their swords, in such a just and charitable war.
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Foul deeds will rise, Though all the earth o'erwhelm them, to men's eyes.
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Methinks a father Is at the nuptial of his son a guest That best becomes the table.
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Come unto these yellow sands, And then take hands. Curtsied when you have and kissed The wild waves whist, Foot is featly here and there And, sweet sprites, the burden bear. Ariel's song, scene II, Act I
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No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?
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There was never yet philosopher that could endure the toothache patiently
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As chaste as unsunned snow.
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It comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.
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Exit, pursued by a bear.
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Like as the waves make towards the pebbl'd shore, so do our minutes, hasten to their end.
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As in a theatre, the eyes of men, after a well-graced actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next.
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The soul of this man is his clothes.
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Ambition's debt is paid.
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Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
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In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.
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For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.
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If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
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She says I am not fair, that I lack manners She calls me proud, and that she could not love me, Were man as rare as Phoenix.
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Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
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