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We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars as if we were villians by compulsion.
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
Make
Disasters
Compulsion
Disaster
Guilty
Guilt
Sun
Knaves
Moon
Lear
Stars
Evasion
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My prophecy is but half his journey yet, For yonder walls, that pertly front your town, Yon towers, whose wanton tops do buss the clouds, Must kiss their own feet.
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They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
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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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The prince of darkness is a gentleman!
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Simply the thing that I am shall make me live.
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A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd, Quoted, and sign'd, to do a deed of shame.
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Unnatural deeds Do breed unnatural troubles: infected minds To their deaf pillows will discharge their secrets.
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Grief fills the room up of my absent child, Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, Puts on his pretty look, repeats his words, Remembers me of his gracious parts, Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form
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Though yet of Hamlet our dear brother's death the memory be green.
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Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
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The extreme parts of time extremely forms all causes to the purpose of his speed.
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The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.
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Direct not him whose way himself will choose 'Tis breath not lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.
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Too nice, and yet too true!
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There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
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Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
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Bid the dishonest man mend himself if he mend, he is no longer dishonest.
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O, Thou hast damnable iteration and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
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Why, then the world ’s mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.
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What's his offense? Groping for trout in a peculiar river.
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