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O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
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
Art
Struggle
Repentance
Sinews
States
State
Steel
Bosom
Soul
Help
Strings
Bosoms
Heart
Free
Angels
Babe
Make
Born
Soft
Bows
Black
Knees
Stubborn
Death
Engaged
Wretched
Helping
Angel
Struggling
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Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, Not to outsport discretion.
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Yet nor the lays of birds nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew Nor did I wonder at the lily's white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose They were but sweet, but figures of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.
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I do oppose My patience to his fury, and am arm'd To suffer, with a quietness of spirit, The very tyranny and rage of his.
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Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues.
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Take but degree away, untune that string, and hark, what discord follows!
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These signs have marked me extraordinary, And all the courses of my life do show I am not in the roll of common men.
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A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
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Do not swear by the moon, for she changes constantly. Then your love would also change.
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That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow, which I then did feel, Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
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I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well
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Though justice be thy plea consider this, that in the course of justice none of us should see salvation.
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When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!
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The best is yet to come.
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What freezings I have felt, what dark days seen, What old December's bareness everywhere!
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The moon, like to a silver bow new bent in heaven.
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O serpent heart hid with a flowering face! Did ever a dragon keep so fair a cave? Beautiful tyrant, feind angelical, dove feather raven, wolvish-ravening lamb! Despised substance of devinest show, just opposite to what thou justly seemest - A dammed saint, an honourable villain!
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Thou unfit for any place but hell.
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The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
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Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.
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