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Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!
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
Cutting
Stale
Ale
Away
Filthy
Rascals
Play
Knife
Chaps
Mouldy
Thrust
Sassy
Saucy
Bottle
Basket
Juggler
Knives
Purse
Hilt
Bottles
Baskets
Rascal
Wine
Purses
Jugglers
More quotes by William Shakespeare
But when the fox hath once got in his nose, He'll soon find means to make the body follow.
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Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant.
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Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night's dull ear and from the tents The armorers accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.
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No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
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Those, that with haste will make a mighty fire, Begin it with weak straws.
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I wish you all the joy that you can wish.
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No matter where of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
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But love is blind and lovers cannot see
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Retire me to my Milan, where Every third thought shall be my grave.
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Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.
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Ignorance is the curse of God knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
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I am giddy, expectation whirls me round. The imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense.
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Poor wretches that depend On greatness' favor, dream as I have done Wake, and find nothing.
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I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.
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Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.
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Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.
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I would fain die a dry death.
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Faults that are rich are fair.
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The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree.
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Done to death by slanderous tongue
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