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Chewing the food of sweet and bitter fancy.
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
Food
Chewing
Culinary
Bitterness
Fancy
Bitter
Cooking
Sweet
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No profit grows where no pleasure is taken.
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Take but degree away, untune that string, and hark, what discord follows!
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They are hare-brain'd slaves.
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So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown When judges have been babes great floods have flown From simple sources, and great seas have dried When miracles have by the greatest been denied.
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Why are our bodies soft, and weak, and smooth But that our soft conditions and our hearts Should well agree with our external parts?
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Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.
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But 'tis common proof, that lowliness is young ambition's ladder, whereto the climber-upward turns his face but when he once attains the upmost round, he then turns his back, looks in the clouds, scorning the vase defrees by which he did ascend.
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The trust I have is in mine innocence, and therefore am I bold and resolute.
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I was a coward on instinct.
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To set a gloss on faint deeds, hollow welcomes, Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown But where there is true friendship, there needs none.
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Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.
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Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.
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If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.
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Ideas are the very coinage of your brain.
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It is the cowish terror of his spirit that dares not undertake he'll not feel wrongs which tie him to an answer.
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Let husbands know Their wives have sense like them. They see, and smell, And have their palates both for sweet and sour, As husbands have.
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All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.
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I durst not laugh for fear of opening my lips and receiving the bad air.
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'Tis pride that pulls the country down.
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Besides, our nearness to the King in love Is near the hate of those love not the King.
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