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Ingrateful man with liquorish draughts, and morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind that from it all consideration slips.
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
Mind
Morsels
Men
Draughts
Draught
Grease
Sensuality
Slips
Consideration
Pure
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O that men's ears should be To counsel deaf but not to flattery!
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Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence so sweet is zealous contemplation.
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To take arms against a sea of troubles.
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Oh, I have passed a miserable night, so full of ugly sights, of ghastly dreams!
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Death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
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Too much to know is to know naught but fame.
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You speak like a green girl / unsifted in such perilous circumstances.
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I do desire we may be better strangers.
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Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.
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But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool.
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I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venomed spear.
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QUINCE Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman I have a beard coming.
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O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
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Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
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Speak on, but be not over-tedious.
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Love thyself last, cherish those hearts that hate thee Corruption wins not more than honesty.
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I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely.
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What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no.
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Love is . . . a madness most discreet
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