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I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valor.
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
Kind
Men
Purposely
Valor
Quarrels
Taste
Heard
Others
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I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
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The worm is not to be trusted.
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We may outrun By violent swiftness And lose by over-running.
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Demand me nothing: what you know, you know.
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And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, — I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
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Honesty is the best policy. If I lose mine honor, I lose myself.
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You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.
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For man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.
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The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75
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I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love.
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Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
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All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
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Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.
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What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.
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The eagle suffers little birds to sing, And is not careful what they mean thereby, Knowing that with the shadow of his wings He can at pleasure stint their melody: Even so mayest thou the giddy men of Rome.
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His life was gentle and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!
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There is none of my uncle's marks upon you he taught me how to know a man in love in which cage of rushes I am sure you are not prisoner.
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The painful warrior famous for fight, After a thousand victories, once foil'd, Is from the books of honor razed quite, And all the rest forgot for which he toil'd
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Methinks a father Is at the nuptial of his son a guest That best becomes the table.
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