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Why, universal plodding poisons up The nimble spirits in the arteries, As motion and long-during action tires The sinewy vigor of the traveller.
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
Motion
Nimble
Poison
Tires
Universal
Poisons
Action
Arteries
Spirit
Traveller
Work
Vigor
Long
Tire
Sinewy
Spirits
Plodding
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Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away.
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Yet, do thy worst, old Time despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young.
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GLOUCESTER: Yet so much is my poverty of spirit, So mighty and so many my defects, As I had rather hide me from my greatness, Being a bark to brook no mighty sea, Than in my greatness covet to be hid, And in the vapour of my glory smother'd. But God be thanked. . . .
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This is his uncle's teaching, this Worcester, Malevolent to you In all aspects, Which makes him prune himself and bristle up The crest of youth against your dignity.
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Thou art an elm, my husband, I a vine.
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Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
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Merrily, merrily shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
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For trust not him that hath once broken faith
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We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars as if we were villians by compulsion.
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In thy foul throat thou liest.
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Were kisses all the joys in bed, One woman would another wed.
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Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain
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There is a world elsewhere.
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He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
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Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!
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Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
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'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible true, that thou art beauteous truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal.
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Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow, Ang'ring itself and others.
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Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away
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A lover goes toward his beloved as enthusiastically as a schoolboy leaving his books, but when he leaves his girlfriend, he feels as miserable as the schoolboy on his way to school. (Act 2, scene 2)
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