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Nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility.
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
Docks
Utility
Hateful
Rough
Losing
Beauty
Teems
Nothing
Thistles
Clovers
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The seeming truth which cunning times put on to entrap the wisest.
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But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
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It may do good pride hath no other glass To show itself but pride, for supple knees Feed arrogance and are the proud man's fees.
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My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
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All things that are, are with more spirit chased than enjoyed.
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I would with such perfection govern, sir, T'excel the golden age.
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Do all men kill the things they do not love?
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A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.
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Be merry you have cause, so have we all, of joy for our escape is much beyond our loss . . . . then wisely weigh our sorrow with our comfort.
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I am that merry wanderer of the night.
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Opinion, a sovereign mistress of effects.
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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.
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An old black ram is tupping your white ewe
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For naught so vile that on the earth doth live But to the earth some special good doth give.
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Headstrong liberty is lashed with woe.
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Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.
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I see men's judgments are A parcel of their fortunes and things outward Do draw the inward quality after them, To suffer all alike.
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