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Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head?
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
Bred
Merchants
Venice
Fancy
Head
Inspirational
Tell
Heart
Shylock
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Who is it can read a woman?
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Where is your ancient courage? You were used to say extremities was the trier of spirits That common chances common men could bear That when the sea was calm all boats alike showed mastership in floating.
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I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged.
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Many a man's tongue shakes out his master's undoing.
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Drink down all unkindness.
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What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
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I would with such perfection govern, sir, T'excel the golden age.
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I understand thy kisses, and thou mine, And that's a feeling disputation.
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No particular scandal one can touch but it confounds the breather.
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Wait for the season when to cast good counsels upon subsiding passion.
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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
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I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world.
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Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.
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Shall remain! Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you His absolute 'shall'?
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I dare do all that may become a man Who dares do more, is none
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A breath thou art, Servile to all the skyey influences.
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The even mead, that erst brought sweetly forth The freckled cowslip, burnet, and green clover, Wanting the scythe, all uncorrected, rank, Conceives by idleness, and nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burrs, Losing both beauty and utility.
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Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller.
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Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords!
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His jest will savour but of shallow wit, When thousands weep, more than did laugh at it.
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