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There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.
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
Choices
Littles
Little
Barrel
Barrels
Rotten
Apples
Choice
More quotes by William Shakespeare
I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
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My wits begin to turn.
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If thou remeber'st not the slightest folly that ever love did make thee run into, thou hast not lov'd
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But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.
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Love is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake- its everything except what it is! (Act 1, scene 1)
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He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
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Fight valiantly to-day and yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valor.
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Every true man's apparel fits your thief.
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For I can raise no money by vile means.
William Shakespeare
The most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is and steal out of your company.
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Our content Is our best having.
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Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth.
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Patch up thine old body for heaven.
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A miracle. Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light I take thee for pity. Beatrice: I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Benedick: Peace. I will stop your mouth.
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Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day.
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If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'
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A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story
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Two women placed together makes cold weather.
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Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.
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Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods, Nettled and stung with pismires[nettles], when I hear Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.
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