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We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh few are angels.
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
Capable
Mankind
Men
Natures
Frail
Angels
Flesh
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When I was at home I was in a better place
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Instinct is a great matter. I was now a coward on instinct.
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Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.
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I'll forbear And am fallen out with my more headier will To take the indisposed and sickly fit For the sound man.
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We make trifles of terrors, Ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge, When we should submit ourselves to an unknown fear.
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The expedition of my violent love outrun the pauser, reason.
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Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.
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As for my wife, I would you had her spirit in such another The third o' th' world is yours, which with a snaffle You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
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Our very eyes Are sometimes, like our judgments, blind.
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A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!
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In right and service to their noble country.
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The summer's flow'r is to the summer sweet, Though to itself it only live and die' But if that flow'r with base infection meet, The basest weed outbraves his dignity: For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
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It's easy for someone to joke about scars if they've never been cut.
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Avaunt, you cullions!
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Master, go on, and I will follow thee To the last gasp with truth and loyalty.
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Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?
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What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.
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The course of true love never did run smooth.
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But I remember now I am in this earthly world, where to do harm Is often laudable, to do good sometime Accounted dangerous folly.
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Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?
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