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No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure 'scape back- wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?
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
Might
Strikes
Scapes
Tongue
Whitest
King
Wounding
Greatness
Gall
Kings
Calumny
Virtue
Censure
Strong
Mortality
Scape
Back
Ties
Slanderous
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There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
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Then hate me when thou wilt, if ever, now.
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Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land the great ones eat up the little ones.
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Those that do teach young babes Do it with gentle means and easy tasks.
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O serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, feind angelical, dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honourable villain!
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Let the end try the man.
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Better be with the dead, Whom we to gain our peace, have sent to peace, Than on the torture of the mind to lie In restless ecstasy.
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I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano!
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Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear
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Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.
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Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?
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There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
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I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.
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Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.
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Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful.
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A stirring dwarf we do allowance give Before a sleeping giant.
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We must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.
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But as the unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
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When the age is in, the wit is out
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For you and I are past our dancing days.
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