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Gnawing with my teeth my bonds in sunder, I gain'd my freedom.
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
Gain
Teeth
Gains
Freedom
Gnawing
Bonds
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The instruments of darkness tell us truths.
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In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales Of woeful ages, long ago betid
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A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
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Tis not the many oaths that make the truth But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.
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Hereditary sloth instructs me.
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O teach me how I should forget to think (1.1.224)
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Temptation: the fiend at my elbow.
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For what is wedlock forced but a hell, An age of discord and continual strife? Whereas the contrary bringeth bliss, And is a pattern of celestial peace.
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More matter with less art.
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For you and I are past our dancing days.
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Faith, stay here this night they will surely do us no harm you saw they speak us fair, give us gold methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.
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The sweets we wish for, turn to loathed sours, Even in the moment that we call them ours.
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Blessings of your heart, you brew good ale.
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Being daily swallowed by men's eyes, They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June. Heard, not regarded.
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Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
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I am not mad I would to heaven I were! For then, 'tis like I should forget myself O, if I could, what grief should I forget!
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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.
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But 'tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend.
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Things at the worst will cease or else climb upward To what they were before.
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