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Fight valiantly to-day and yet I do thee wrong to mind thee of it, for thou art framed of the firm truth of valor.
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
Wrong
Valor
Art
Framed
Truth
Bravery
Mind
Firm
Thou
Thee
Fight
Fighting
Valiantly
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Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.
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Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on his back.
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One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.
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Farewell the tranquil mind! farewell content! Farewell the plumed troops, and the big wars That make ambition virtue.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence And dumb presagers of my speaking breast, Who plead for love, and look for recompense, More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
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By a divine instinct, men's minds mistrust ensuing danger as, by proof, we see the waters swell before a boisterous storm.
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... the spring, the summer, The chilling autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries and the mazed world By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them, they are not worth the search.
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I knew when seven justices could not take up a quarrel, but when the parties were met themselves, one of them thought but of an If, as, 'If you said so, then I said so' and they shook hands and swore brothers. Your If is the only peacemaker much virtue in If.
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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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Every true man's apparel fits your thief.
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Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.
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What a piece of work is a man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.
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Every subject's duty is the Kings, but every subject's soul is his own.
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Shall I compare thee to a summer day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate... When in eternal lines to time thou growst So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
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Love, whose month is ever May, Spied a blossom passing fair, Playing in the wanton air: Through the velvet leaves the wind, All unseen can passage find That the lover, sick to death, Wish'd himself the heaven's breath.
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I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.
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Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.
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A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.
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What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.
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