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Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.
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
Loses
Edge
Art
Ill
Used
Edges
Take
Hardest
Heart
Privilege
Heed
Dear
Knife
Large
Doth
Lose
Knives
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O villains, vipers, dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!
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Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.
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If I were a woman I would kiss as many of you as had beards that pleased me, complexions that liked me and breaths that I defied not
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No .... holy father, throw away that thought. Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom.
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Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.
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I have pursued her, as love hath pursued me
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Either our history shall with full mouth Speak freely of our acts, or else our grave, Like Turkish mute, shall have a tongueless mouth, Not worshipped with a waxen epitaph.
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But now I am cabined, cribbed, confined, bound in To saucy doubts and fears.
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But wherefore could not I pronounce 'Amen'? I had most need of blessing, and 'Amen' Stuck in my throat.
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for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
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Some glory in their birth , some in their skill , Some in their wealth , some in their bodies' force , Some in their garments, though new-fangled ill Some in their hawks and hounds , some in their horse And every humor hath his adjunct pleasure , Wherein it finds a joy above the rest .
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For now I stand as one upon a rock environed with a wilderness of sea, who marks the waxing tide grow wave by wave, expecting ever when some envious surge will in his brinish bowels swallow him.
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Where I could not be honest, I never yet was valiant.
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Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.
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Villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man Snakes in my heart-blood warm'd, that sing my heart Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas.
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I shall despair. There is no creature loves me And if I die no soul will pity me: And wherefore should they, since that I myself Find in myself no pity to myself?
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