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Should the poor be flattered? No let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.
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
Knees
Lick
Absurd
Crooks
Tongue
Hinges
Follow
Thrift
Poor
Flattered
May
Knee
Fawning
Flattery
Crook
Pregnant
Pomp
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Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.
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Coward dogs most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten runs far before them.
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I must be cruel only to be kind Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind.
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An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
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The will of man is by his reason sway'd.
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Fondling,' she saith, 'since I have hemm'd thee here Within the circuit of this ivory pale, I'll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale: Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry, Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
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Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls Conscience is but a work that cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe: Our strong arms be our conscience, swords our law!
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Honor's thought Reigns solely in the breast of every man.
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Man, proud man, Drest in a little brief authority, Most ignorant of what he's most assured.
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And he goes through life, his mouth open, and his mind closed.
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Thriftless ambition, that wilt ravin up Thine own life's means!
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Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.
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You lack the season of all natures, sleep.
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I love thee, and it is my love that speaks
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The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle that's curded by the frost from purest snow.
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Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity In least speak most, to my capacity.
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Yon grey lines That fret the clouds are messengers of day.
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Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.
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Faith, stay here this night they will surely do us no harm you saw they speak us fair, give us gold methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.
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I am bewitched with the rogue's company. If the rascal have not given me medicines to make me love him, I'll be hanged.
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