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'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase you vile standing-tuck!
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
Breaths
Bulls
Tuck
Skin
Neat
Tailor
Skins
Utter
Tailors
Tongue
Yards
Sassy
Thee
Stock
Dried
Standing
Fish
Vile
Like
Fishes
Bull
Breath
Yard
Sheath
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A king of infinite space
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Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove. O, no! It is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken. It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
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O' What may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side!
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Suspicion shall be all stuck full of eyes.
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Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.
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I was a coward on instinct.
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What is done cannot be now amended.
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Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
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What can be avoided Whose end is purposed by the mighty gods?
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T'is true: there's magic in the web of it.
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Oh, that way madness lies let me shun that.
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A man can die but once.
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O, this life Is nobler than attending for a check, Richer than doing nothing for a robe, Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk: Such pain the cap of him that makes him fine Yet keeps his book uncrossed.
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
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Make passionate my sense of hearing.
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Nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.
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The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.
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Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.
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