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So many miseries have craz'd my voice, That my woe-wearied tongue is still and mute.
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
Mute
Woe
Tongue
Misery
Voice
Stills
Still
Wearied
Many
Miseries
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The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.
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Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.
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Modest wisdom plucks me from over-credulous haste.
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Tis often seen Adoption strives with nature and choice breeds A native slip to us from foreign lands.
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If I for my opinion bleed, opinion shall be surgeon to my hurt, and keep me on the side where still I am.
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I love thee so, that, maugre all thy pride, Nor wit nor reason can my passion hide. Do not extort thy reasons from this clause, For that I woo, thou therefore hast no cause But rather reason thus with reason fetter, Love sought is good, but given unsought better.
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What can be happier than for a man, conscious of virtuous acts, and content with liberty, to despise all human affairs?
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Now the fair goddess, Fortune, Fall deep in love with thee, and her great charms Misguide thy opposers' swords!
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Out, damned spot! out, I say! One: two: why, then 'tis time to do't. Hell is murky!
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Discharge my followers let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.
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Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
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We suffer a lot the few things we lack and we enjoy too little the many things we have.
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On pain of death, no person be so bold.
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Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.
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What the vengeance, could he not speak 'em fair?
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The world is not thy friend, nor the world's law. - Romeo
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Past and to come, seems best things present, worse.
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Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.
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Then will I raise aloft the milk-white rose. For whose sweet smell the air shall be perfumed.
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Hath Romeo slain himself? Say thou but ay, And that bare vowel ay shall poison more Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice. I am not I,if there be such an ay, Or those eyes shut,that make thee answer ay: If he be slain say ay,or if not,no: Brief sounds,determine of my weal or woe.
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