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Light and lust are deadly enemies.
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
Deadly
Lust
Enemies
Enemy
Light
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Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.
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Come not within the measure of my wrath.
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If you be King, why should not I succeed?
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'Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.
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To wilful men, the injuries that they themselves procure must be their schoolmasters.
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So may I, blind fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving.
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I hate the murderer, love him murdered.
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The seasons alter: hoary-headed frosts Fall in the fresh lap of the crimson rose, And on old Hiems' thin and icy crown An odorous chaplet of sweet summer buds Is, as in mockery, set. The spring, the summer, The childing autumn, angry winter, change Their wonted liveries, and the mazed world, By their increase, now knows not which is which.
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Know more than other. Work more than other. Expect less than other
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Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart.
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If there is a good will, there is great way.
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There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
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You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
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We must be gentle now we are gentlemen.
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For I can raise no money by vile means. By heaven, I had rather coin my heart, And drop my blood for drachmas
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Well could he ride, and often men would say, That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes! And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.
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But as the unthought-on accident is guilty To what we wildly do, so we profess Ourselves to be the slaves of chance, and flies Of every wind that blows.
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Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?
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Scarce can I speak, my choler is so great. Oh! I could hew up rocks, and fight with flint.
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By Jove, I am not covetous for gold, Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost It yearns me not if me my garments wear Such outward things dwell not in my desires: But if it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul alive.
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