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That is the way to lay the city flat, To bring the roof to the foundation, And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges, In heaps and piles of ruin.
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
Cities
Ruin
Bring
Flats
Way
Roof
Ranges
Ruins
Heaps
Range
Piles
Lays
Distinctly
Foundation
Bury
City
Flat
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When Caesar says, 'Do this', it is performed.
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Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
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Lives like a drunken sailor on a mast, Ready with every nod to tumble down Into the fatal bowels of the deep.
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If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.
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Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.
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Tis gold Which buys admittance--oft it doth--yea, and makes Diana's rangers false themselves, yield up This deer to th' stand o' th' stealer: and 'tis gold Which makes the true man kill'd and saves the thief, Nay, sometimes hangs both thief and true man.
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Miracles are ceased and therefore we must needs admit the means, how things are perfected.
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If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.
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He that commends me to mine own content Commends me to the thing I cannot get. I to the world am like a drop of water That in the ocean seeks another drop, Who, falling there to find his fellow forth, Unseen, inquisitive, confounds himself: So I, to find a mother and a brother, In quest of them, unhappy, lose myself.
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Besides, they are our outward consciences, And preachers to us all, admonishing That we should drew us fairly for our end.
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The icy precepts of respect.
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Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile, Hath not old custom made this life more sweet Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods More free from peril than the envious court?
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I cannot draw a cart, nor eat dried oats If it be man's work, I'll do't.
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Opinion's but a fool, that makes us scan The outward habit by the inward man.
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For love, thou know'st, is full of jealousy
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My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent.
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Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!
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Time is the king of men.
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All that glisters is not gold Often have you heard that told.
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Discharge my followers let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.
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