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For many men that stumble at the threshold are well foretold that danger lurks within.
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
Many
Foretold
Men
Lurks
Stumble
Threshold
Danger
Within
Wells
Well
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Such antics do not amount to a man.
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They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad
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Do you see yonder cloud that’s almost in shape of a camel? Polonius: By the mass, and ‘tis like a camel, indeed. Hamlet: Methinks it is like a weasel. Polonius: It is backed like a weasel. Hamlet: Or like a whale? Polonius: Very like a whale.
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For 'tis the sport to have the engineer Hoist with his own petar and't shall go hard But I will delve one yard below their mines And blow them at the moon.
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He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.
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Double, double, toil and trouble Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!
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As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue
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A violet in the youth of primy nature, Forward, not permanent--sweet, not lasting The perfume and suppliance of a minute No more.
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As you are old and reverend, you should be wise.
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One man in his time plays many parts.
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For night's swift dragons cut the clouds full fast, And yonder shines Aurora's harbinger At whose approach ghosts wandring here and there Troop home to church-yards.... For fear lest day should look their shames upon, They willfully exile themselves from light, And must for aye consort with black brow'd night.
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Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.
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When I got enough confidence, the stage was gone. When I was sure of losing, I won. When I needed people the most, they left me. When I learnt to dry my tears, I found a shoulder to cry on. And when I mastered the art of hating, somebody started loving me.
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The morning steals upon the night, Melting the darkness.
William Shakespeare
Thou shalt be both the plaintiff and the judge of thine own cause.
William Shakespeare
The gates of monarchs Are arched so high that giants may jet through And keep their impious turbans on without Good morrow to the sun.
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You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!
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World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.
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When most I wink, then do my eyes best see
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The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.
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