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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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There's no trust, No faith, no honesty in men all perjured, All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.
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I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!
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Tis beauty that doth oft make women proud but, God He knows, thy share thereof is small.
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Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
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He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
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Nothing can come of nothing.
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My love admits no qualifying dross
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And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love.
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It is lost at dice, what ancient honor won.
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But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men.
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Tears water our growth.
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As a walled town is more worthier than a village, so is the forehead of a married man more honorable than the bare brow of a bachelor.
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Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor for 'tis the mind that makes the body rich
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These are the forgeries of jealousy And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.
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Let no such man be trusted.
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They have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor
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Why, thou owest god a death.
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I once did hold it, as our statists do, A baseness to write fair, and labour'd much How to forget that learning but, sir, now It did me yeoman's service.
William Shakespeare
This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators, save only he,Did that they did in envy of CaesarHe only, in a general honest thoughtAnd common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mixd in him that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world, This was a man!
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Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck, And yet methinks I have astronomy. But not to tell of good or evil luck, Of plagues, of dearths, or season's quality Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell ... Or say with princes if it shall go well.
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