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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
Wells
Well
Many
Foretold
Men
Lurks
Stumble
Threshold
Danger
Within
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Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!
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I am your wife if you will marry me. If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow You may deny me, but I'll be your servant Whether you will or no.
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I have not slept. Between the acting of a dreadful thing And the first motion, all the interim is Like a phantasma, or a hideous dream: The Genius and the mortal instruments Are then in council and the state of man, Like to a little kingdom, suffers then The nature of an insurrection.
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O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.
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Awake, awake, English nobility! Let not sloth dim your horrors new-begot.
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Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
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Who can control his fate?
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Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion
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Then with the losers let it sympathize, For nothing can seem foul to those that win.
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Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.
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They have a plentiful lack of wit.
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Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
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No sooner met but they looked no sooner looked but they loved no sooner loved but they sighed no sooner sighed but they asked one another the reason no sooner knew the reason but they sought the remedy and in these degrees have they made a pair of stairs to marriage.
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That skull had a tongue in it, and could sing once: how the knave jowls it to the ground, as if it were Cain's jaw-bone, that did the first murder! It might be the pate of a politician, which this ass now o'er-reaches one that would circumvent God, might it not?
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For she had eyes and chose me.
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To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?
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I have thrust myself into this maze, Haply to wive and thrive as best I may.
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
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The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.
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You are my true and honourable wife As dear to me as the ruddy drops That visit my sad heart.
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