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Such an act That blurs the grace and blush of modesty Calls virtue hypocrite takes off the rose From the fair forehead of an innocent love, And sets a blister there makes marriage vows As false as dicers' oaths.
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
Fair
Oath
Inconstancy
Rose
Fairness
Vows
Marriage
Modesty
Blush
Grace
Sets
Forehead
Virtue
Calls
Vow
Blister
Takes
Fairs
Foreheads
Blurs
Makes
Innocent
Blur
Oaths
Love
False
Hypocrite
Blisters
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Poise the cause in justice's equal scales, Whose beam stands sure, whose rightful cause prevails.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.
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A victory is twice itself when the achiever brings home full numbers.
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Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.
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My love is thaw'd Which, like a waxen image 'gainst a fire, bears no impression of the thing it was
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If you shall marry, You give away this hand, and this is mine You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine You give away myself, which is known mine For I by vow am so embodied yours That she which marries you must marry me-- Either both or none.
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Now the good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved children is enrolled In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam Should now eat up her own!
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Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off ... Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
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Who wooed in haste, and means to wed at leisure.
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Had I but died an hour before this chance, I had liv'd a blessed time for, from this instant, There's nothing serious in mortality: All is but toys renown, and grace is dead The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of.
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O all you host of heaven! O earth! What else? And shall I couple Hell?
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Boundless intemperance In nature is a tyranny. It hath been Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne And fall of many kings.
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There's some ill planet reigns: I must be patient till the heavens look With an aspect more favourable.
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Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
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If is a custom, More honor'd in the breach than the observance.
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They do not abuse the king that flatter him. For flattery is the bellows blows up sin The thing the which is flattered, but a spark To which that blast gives heat and stronger glowing.
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I cannot speak your england.
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Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
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Tis much when sceptres are in children's hands, But more when envy breeds unkind division: There comes the ruin, there begins confusion.
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That which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in. and the best of me is diligence.
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