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Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away.
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
Away
Ministers
Become
Cast
Soul
Casts
Better
Souls
Love
Ambition
Straying
None
Clergymen
Winning
Meekness
Lord
Modesty
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You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.
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Do not for one repulse, forego the purpose That you resolved to effect.
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I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.
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Nimble thought can jump both sea and land.
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Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
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From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing.
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As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.
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Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.
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When remedies are past, the griefs are ended By seeing the worst, which late on hopes depended.
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I know them, yea, And what they weigh, even to the utmost scruple Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong'ring boys, That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander, Go antickly, and show outward hideousness, And speak off half a dozen dangerous words, How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst And this is all.
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I do not know What kind of my obedience I should tender. More than my all is nothing nor my prayers Are not words holy hallowed, nor my wishes More worth than empty vanities yet prayers and wishes Are all I can return.
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I will despair, and be at enmity With cozening hope.
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I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.
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Come, Lady, die to live.
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How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!
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For mine own part, it was Greek to me.
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Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie, And young affection gapes to be his heir That fair for which love groan'd for and would die, With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.
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He who has injured thee was either stronger or weaker than thee. If weaker, spare him if stronger, spare thyself.
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