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A ministering angel shall my sister be.
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
Angel
Shall
Ministering
Sisterhood
Sibling
Sister
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I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.
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What a piece of work is a man
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Being daily swallowed by men's eyes, They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June. Heard, not regarded.
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A woman that is like a German clock, Still a-repairing, ever out of frame, And never going aright, being a watch, But being watched that it may still go right!
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False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
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Their understanding Begins to swell and the approaching tide Will shortly fill the reasonable shores That now lie foul and muddy.
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Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
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Me, poor man, my library Was dukedom large enough.
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What a fool honesty is.
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Commit the oldest sins the newest kind of ways.
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Unless the old adage must be verified, That beggars mounted, run their horse to death.
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I have almost forgotten the taste of fears: The time has been, my senses would have cool’d to hear a night-shriek and my fell of hair would at a dismal treatise rouse and stir as life were in’t: I have supt full with horrors Direness, familiar to my slaughterous thoughts, cannot once start me.
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Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.
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Poise the cause in justice's equal scales, Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails.
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She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed She is a woman, therefore to be won.
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Now my charms are all o'erthrown.
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Dissembling courtesy! How fine this tyrant can trickle when she wounds!
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Let me not live, after my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff of younger spirits.
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Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.
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It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?
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