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Very good orators, when they are out, they will spit and for lovers, lacking--God warn us!--matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.
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
Spit
Shift
Lacking
Kiss
Kissing
Lovers
Orators
Matter
Oratory
Good
Warn
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Thou art a slave, whom fortune's tender arm With favour never clasp'd but bred a dog.
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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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In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?
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For truth hath better deeds than words to grace it.
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The readiness is all.
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So sweet was ne'er so fatal. I must weep. But they are creul tears. This sorrow's heavenly it strikes where it doth love.
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Patience is sottish, and impatience does become a dog that's mad.
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Your worm is your only emperor for diet we fat all creatures else to fat us, and we fat ourselves for maggots.
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Nothing comes from doing nothing.
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The instances that second marriage move Are base respects of thrift, but none of love.
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Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.
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O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
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You are a tedious fool.
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We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.
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First Witch He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou nought.
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A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.
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Beauty provoketh thieves sooner than gold.
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Tell me where is fancy bred, Or in the heart, or in the head? How begot, how nourished? Reply, reply. It is engend'red in the eyes, With gazing fed, and fancy dies In the cradle where it lies.
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Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye.
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Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones Who, though they cannot answer my distress, Yet in some sort they are better than the tribunes, For that they will not intercept my tale: When I do weep, they humbly at my feet Receive my tears and seem to weep with me And, were they but attired in grave weeds, Rome could afford no tribune like to these.
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