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The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.
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
Moved
Merchants
Sweet
Venice
Sound
Treason
Treasons
Music
Spoil
Stratagems
Men
Hath
Shylock
Sounds
Concord
Fit
Stratagem
Musical
Spoils
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Be not afraid of greatness.
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Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
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And all this day an unaccustomed spirit lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
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I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say - I love you
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How many fond fools serve mad jealousy!
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This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.
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Were beauty under twenty locks kept fast, yet love breaks through and picks them all at last.
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This is a gift that I have, simple, simple a foolish extravagant spirit full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater, and delivered upon the mellowing of occasion.
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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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Love thyself last, cherish those hearts that hate thee Corruption wins not more than honesty.
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He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
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Is not birth, beauty, good shape, discourse, Manhood, learning, gentleness, virtue, youth, liberality, and such like, the spice and salt that season a man
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I was a coward on instinct.
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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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I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.
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Fair ladies, masked, are roses in their bud Dismasked, the damask sweet commixture shown, Are angels vailing clouds, or roses blown.
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Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.
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