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Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses.
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
World
Noses
Britain
Wearing
Pay
Nothing
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The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
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Then imitate the action of the tiger stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
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Good morrow, fair ones pray you, if you know, Where in the purlieus of this forest stands A sheep-cote fenc'd about with olive trees?
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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.
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Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
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I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
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Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so, To make my end too sudden.
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By Heaven, my soul is purg'd from grudging hate And with my hand I seal my true heart's love
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The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the razor's edge invisible.
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Then know, that I have little wealth to lose. A man I am, crossed with adversity My riches are these poor habiliments, Of which if you should here disfurnish me, You take the sum and substance that I have.
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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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Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.
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This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horseback-breaker, this huge hill of flesh!
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Have I caught thee, my heavenly jewel? Why, now let me die, for I have lived long enough.
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Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
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He jests at scars that never felt a wound.
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My charity is outrage, life my shame And in that shame still live my sorrow's rage!
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We must love men, ere to us they will seem worthy of our love.
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This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
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Give me my sin again.
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