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I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.
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
Vow
Pray
Wine
Praying
Fall
Made
Love
Vows
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O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.
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My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend, And nothing brings me all things.
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A woman is a dish for the gods, if the devil dress her not.
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Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. [Act 5, Scene 2]
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Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile Filths savour but themselves.
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When daisies pied and violets blue And lady-smocks all silver-white And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree, Mocks married men for thus sings he, Cuckoo Cuckoo, cuckoo O, word of fear, Unpleasing to a married ear.
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Leave us to our free election.
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These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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But men are men the best sometimes forget.
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Perseverance, my dear Lord. Keeps honour bright.
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Some glory in their birth , some in their skill , Some in their wealth , some in their bodies' force , Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill Some in their hawks and hounds , some in their horse And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure , Wherein it finds a joy above the rest .
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I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love.
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What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.
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Love denied blights the soul we owe to God.
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O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
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Within the book and volume of thy brain.
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Swift as shadow, short as any dream
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These cardinals trifle with me I abhor This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.
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Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.
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Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
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