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Thou art a very ragged Wart.
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
Hilarious
Thou
Art
Wart
Warts
Ragged
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There's place and means for every man alive.
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Discharge my followers let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.
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One sees more devils than vast hell can hold
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You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.
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A very scurvy fellow.
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With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
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Condemn the fault and not the actor of it?
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I have more care to stay than will to go.
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Then let thy love be younger than thyself, Or thy affection cannot hold the bent.
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Thou unfit for any place but hell.
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My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty!, guilty!
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When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk: he trots the air the earth sings when he touches it the basest horn of his hoof is more musical than the pipe of Hermes.
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Age, I do abhor thee, youth, I do adore thee.
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Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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I am not prone to weeping as our sex commonly are the want of which vain dew perchance shall dry your pities but I have that honorable grief lodged here which burns worse than tears drown.
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These times of woe afford no time to woo.
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Nature does require her time of preservation, which perforce, I her frail son amongst my brethren mortal, must give my attendance to.
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Determine on some course more than a wild exposure to each chance.
William Shakespeare
ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave for there must I use thee.
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Men should be what they seem Or those that be not, would they might seem none!.
William Shakespeare