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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
Wart
Warts
Ragged
Hilarious
Thou
Art
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To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder, In the most terrible and nimble stroke Of quick, cross lightning.
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If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, Thou robb'st me of a moiety.
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Truth needs no color beauty, no pencil.
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That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.
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Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun it shines everywhere.
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Nor aught so good but strained from that fair use, Revolts from true birth stumbling on abuse.
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Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
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Cry havoc! and let loose the dogs of war, That this foul deed shall smell above the earth With carrion men, groaning for burial.
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I shall show the cinders of my spirits Through the ashes of my chance.
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Will Fortune never come with both hands full, But write her fair words still in foulest terms?
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Nothing comes from doing nothing.
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How slow This old moon wanes! she lingers my desires, Like to a stepdame, or a dowager, Long withering out a young man's revenue.
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O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
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To saucy doubts and fears.
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Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.
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When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.
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Men of few words are the best men. (3.2.41)
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Time be thine, And thy best graces spend it at thy will.
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