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Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
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
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Puff
Ungracious
Read
Steep
Primrose
Shows
Whilst
Thorny
Way
Reckless
Polonius
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Pastor
Treads
Preaching
Libertine
Path
Ophelia
Heaven
Pastors
More quotes by William Shakespeare
One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.
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Time goes on crutches till love have all his rites.
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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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The man that hath no music in himself
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For to be wise and love exceeds man's might.
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I beseech you, Wrest once the law to your authority: To do a great right, do a little wrong.
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We should hold day with the Antipodes, If you would walk in absence of the sun.
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Hopeless and helpless doth Egeon wend, But to procrastinate his liveless end.
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The loyalty, well held to fools, does make Our faith mere folly.
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By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me.
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As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue
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Nature hath meal and bran, contempt and grace.
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Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
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Time is like a fashionable host That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arm outstretch'd, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer.
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What else may hap, to time I will commit.
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If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, Thou robb'st me of a moiety.
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To you your father should be as a god One that composed your beauties, yea, and one To whom you are but as a form in wax, By him imprinted, and within his power To leave the figure or disfigure it.
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Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What 'tis you go about: to climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first: anger is like A full-hot horse, who being allow'd his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you: be to yourself As you would to your friend.
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A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
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The gaudy, blabbing, and remorseful day Is crept into the bosom of the sea.
William Shakespeare