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Beautiful Typography
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The Quick Brown Fox Jumps
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Over The Lazy Dog Near The River
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#ILOVESHAKESPEARESOTHESETYPESAMPLESWILLBESOLILOQUYS
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Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 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 by an idiot, full of sound and
fury, Signifying nothing.
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To be, or not to be, that is the question: Whether 'tis
nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of
outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of
troubles And by opposing end them. 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 wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there's the rub: For in
that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have
shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us
pause—there's the respect That makes calamity of so long
life.
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What’s he that wishes so? My cousin, Westmoreland? No,
my fair cousin; If we are mark’d to die, we are enow To
do our country loss; and if to live, The fewer men, the
greater share of honour. God’s will! I pray thee, wish
not one man more. By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost; It yearns me not
if men my garments wear; Such outward things dwell not
in my desires. But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am
the most offending soul alive. No, faith, my coz, wish
not a man from England. God’s peace! I would not lose so
great an honour As one man more methinks would share
from me For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one
more! Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight, Let him
depart; his passport shall be made, And crowns for
convoy put into his purse; We would not die in that
man’s company That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian. He that
outlives this day, and comes safe home, Will stand a
tip-toe when this day is nam’d, And rouse him at the
name of Crispian. He that shall live this day, and see
old age, Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say “To-morrow is Saint Crispian.” Then will he
strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say “These
wounds I had on Crispin’s day.” Old men forget; yet all
shall be forgot,
Pangrams & Sample Text
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
Pack my box with five dozen liquor jugs.
How vexingly quick daft zebras jump!
The five boxing wizards jump quickly.
Sphinx of black quartz, judge my vow.