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Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech.
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
Enemy
Checks
Love
Wrong
Keys
Life
Rather
None
Use
Taxes
Keep
Speech
Friend
Power
Silence
Thine
Able
Trust
Check
Never
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A woman impudent and mannish grown Is not more loath'd than an effeminate man.
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Thyself shall see the act For, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.
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First Witch He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou nought.
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What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed.
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I must be cruel, only to be kind.
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This world to me is like a lasting storm,Whirring me from my friends.
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ROMEO There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murders in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell. I sell thee poison thou hast sold me none. Farewell: buy food, and get thyself in flesh. Come, cordial and not poison, go with me To Juliet's grave for there must I use thee.
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A man in all the world's new fashion planted, That hath a mint of phrases in his brain.
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Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.
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Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.
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Love thrives not in the heart that shadows dreadeth
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This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler and retails his wares.
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I am a subject, And I challenge law. Attorneys are denied me, And therefore personally I lay my claim To my inheritance of free descent.
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Age, I do abhor thee, youth, I do adore thee.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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God bless thee and put meekness in thy breast, Love, charity, obedience, and true duty!
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Tired with all these, for restful death I cry.
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To gild refined gold, to paint the lily... is wasteful and ridiculous excess
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I came, saw, and overcame.
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It is a basilisk unto mine eye, Kills me to look on't.
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