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When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.
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Lord, what fools these mortals be!
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We know what we are, but not what we may be.
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Doubt thou the stars are fire; Doubt that the sun doth move; Doubt truth to be a liar; But never doubt I love.
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Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; And therefore is wing’d Cupid painted blind. Nor hath love’s mind of any judgment taste; Wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste: And therefore is love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguil’d.
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By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes.
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The course of true love never did run smooth; But, either it was different in blood, O cross! too high to be enthrall’d to low. Or else misgraffed in respect of years, O spite! too old to be engag’d to young. Or else it stood upon the choice of friends, O hell! to choose love by another’s eye.
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The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
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Stars, hide your fires; Let not light see my black and deep desires.
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Though she be but little, she is fierce!
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It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
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The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
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Doubt thou the stars are fire, Doubt that the sun doth move. Doubt truth to be a liar, But never doubt I love.
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To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told…
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My bounty is as boundless as the sea, My love as deep; the more I give to thee, The more I have, for both are infinite.
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