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They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.
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
Scrap
Languages
Stolen
Communication
Language
Great
Scraps
Feast
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I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?
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The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.
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How every fool can play upon the word!
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A very little little let us do And all is done.
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Words, vows, gifts, tears, and love's full sacrifice, He offers in another's enterprise But more in Troilus thousand-fold I see Than in the glass of Pandar's praise may be, Yet hold I off.
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Kiss me, Kate, we shall be married o'Sunday
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I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As is a man were author of himself And knew no other kin.
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Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.
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How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod.
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What drink'st thou oft, instead of homage sweet, But poisoned flattery?
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Strikes deeper, grows with more pernicious root.
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O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art As glorious to this night, being o'er my head As is a winged messenger of heaven
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Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?
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See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
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Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
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We are not the first Who with best meaning have incurred the worst
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Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
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Do not give dalliance too much rein the strongest oaths are straw to the fire in the blood.
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Those that much covet are with gain so fond, For what they have not, that which they possess They scatter and unloose it from their bond, And so, by hoping more, they have but less Or, gaining more, the profit of excess Is but to surfeit, and such griefs sustain, That they prove bankrupt in this poor-rich gain.
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No, no, I am but shadow of myself: You are deceived, my substance is not here.
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