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The color of the king doth come and go, Between his purpose and his conscience, Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set: His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.
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
Must
Conscience
Heralds
Needs
Battle
Twixt
Like
Color
Dreadful
Break
Battles
Passion
Ripe
Purpose
Doth
Two
King
Come
Kings
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The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.
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Can I go forward when my heart is here? Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.
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Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain: Lest sorrow lend me words and words express, The manner of my pity-wanting pain.
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Pray, do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourscore and upward, not an hour more nor less And, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind.
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He is white-livered and red-faced.
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I am a feather for each wind that blows
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Thou seest I have more flesh than another man, and therefore more frailty.
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This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
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Your wisdom is consum'd in confidence. Do not go forth to-day.
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Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.
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We will draw the curtain and show you the picture.
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Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
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Heaven is above all yet there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.
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Here I and sorrows sit Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
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So many horrid Ghosts.
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So may the outward shows be least themselves The world is still deceived with ornament.
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I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes when they are in great danger I recover them.
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I'll never Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand As is a man were author of himself And knew no other kin.
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Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.
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The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.
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