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You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you And here remain with your uncertainty!
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
Men
Loves
Carcasses
Remain
Banish
Cry
Rotten
Air
Corrupt
Whose
Prize
Dead
Uncertainty
Common
Breath
Hate
Breaths
Reek
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Come now, what masques, what dances shall we have To wear away this long age of three hours Between our after-supper and bedtime?
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When most I wink, then do my eyes best see
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Flout 'em, and scout 'em and scout 'em, and flout 'em / Thought is free.
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If circumstances lead me, I will find Where truth is hid, though it were hid indeed Within the centre.
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These times of woe afford no time to woo.
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The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure.
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Come, go with us, speak fair you may salve so, Not what is dangerous present, but the los Of what is past.
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There's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple. If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with't
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I am not in the giving vein today.
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The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, Doth glance from heaven to earth, From earth to heaven.
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Opinion crowns with an imperial voice.
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No place indeed should murder sanctuarize Revenge should have no bounds.
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Be as thou wast wont to be. See as thou wast wont to see.
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The insolence of office.
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Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view.
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To bed, to bed sleep kill those pretty eyes, And give as soft attachment to thy senses, As infants empty of all thought.
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In love the heavens themselves do guide the state Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.
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Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
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There is no vice so simple but assumes some mark of virtue on his outward parts.
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A turn or two I'll walk To still my beating mind.
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