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By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word approve me, lord.
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
Word
Tongues
Place
Approve
Cannot
Flattery
Heart
Hath
Men
Task
Love
Tongue
Braver
Tasks
Flatter
Lord
Defy
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Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.
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Who wooed in haste, and means to wed at leisure.
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We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
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Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, But love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
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Exceeds man's might: that dwells with the gods above.
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The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd
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Mine honour is my life both grow in one Take honour from me, and my life is done.
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Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.
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Have more than you show, Speak less than you know.
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Tis often seen Adoption strives with nature and choice breeds A native slip to us from foreign lands.
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Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
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Now stand you on the top of happy hours, And many maiden gardens yet unset, With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers, Much liker than your painted counterfeit: So should the lines of life that life repair Which this, Time's pencil, or my pupil pen Neither in inward worth nor outward fair Can make you live your self in eyes of men.
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Foul whisperings are abroad
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A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
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They are in the very wrath of love, and they will go together. Clubs cannot part them
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Be lion-mettled, proud, and take no care Who chafes, who frets, or where conspirers are!
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Suffer love a good epithet! I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will.
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Delay leads impotent and snail-paced beggary.
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.
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Pardon, gentles all, the flat unraised spirits that have dared on this unworthy scaffold to bring forth so great an object.
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