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For a noble heart, the most precious gift becomes poor, when the giver stops loving.
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
Becomes
Poor
Heart
Giver
Stops
Precious
Noble
Loving
Gift
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There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.
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Then imitate the action of the tiger stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
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To kill, I grant, is sin's extremest gust But, in defence, by mercy, 'tis most just.
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I thank God I am not a woman, to be touched in so many giddy offences as He hath generally taxed their whole their whole sex withal.
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I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
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Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.
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We see which way the stream of time doth run.
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Love adds a precious seeing to the eye.
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Let us, like merchants, show our foulest wares, And think perchance they'll sell if not, The lustre of the better yet to show Shall show the better.
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Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
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Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep.
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Prosperity's the very bond of love.
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Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.
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What's done is done. The joy is in the doing.
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And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed.
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Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
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Be just, and fear not.
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Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, Brags of his substance, not of ornament: They are but beggars that can count their worth But my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.
William Shakespeare
Unsubstantial Death is amorous.
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If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and this is mine You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine You give away myself, which is known mine For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me-- Either both or none.
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