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The icy precepts of respect.
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
Icy
Precepts
Respect
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.
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His forward voice now is to speak well of his friend. His backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.
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I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
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Love is your master, for he masters you And he that is so yoked by a fool Methinks should not be chronicled for wise.
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And in the morn and liquid dew of youth, Contagious blastments are are most imminent.
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What: is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful?
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They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
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I care not, a man can die but once we owe God and death.
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It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?
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Religious canons, civil laws, are cruel then what should war be?
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As merry as the day is long.
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The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
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For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar's angel: Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar loved him! This was the most unkindest cut of all
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There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male tiger.
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O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.
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There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
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God defend me from that Welsh fairy, Lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!
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The crow doth sing as sweetly as the lark When neither is attended and I think The nightingale, if she should sing by day When every goose is cackling, would be thought No better a musician than the wren. How many thing by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!
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I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
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He receives comfort like cold porridge.
William Shakespeare