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I crave fit disposition for my wife Due reference of place, and exhibition With such accommodation, and besort, As levels with her breeding.
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
Wife
Exhibitions
Place
Breeding
Reference
Crave
Disposition
Dues
Accommodation
Fit
Accommodations
Levels
Exhibition
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Things past redress are now with me past care
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A young man married is a man that's marred.
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No stony bulwark can resist the love, and love dares what anyone can love.
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The golden age is before us, not behind us.
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He that dies pays all debts.
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A good old man, sir. He will be talking. As they say, when the age is in, the wit is out.
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Now the good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved children is enrolled In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam Should now eat up her own!
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Thyself shall see the act For, as thou urgest justice, be assured Thou shalt have justice, more than thou desir'st.
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This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
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Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world.
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If I may trust the flattering truth of sleep, My dreams presage some joyful news at hand. My bosom's lord sits lightly in his throne, And all this day an unaccustomed spirit Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
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The nature of bad news affects the teller.
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Lords, knights and gentlemen, what I should say My tears gainsay for every word I speak, Ye see I drink the water of my eye.
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Love and meekness, lord, Become a churchman better than ambition: Win straying souls with modesty again, Cast none away.
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Good name in man and woman, dear my lord, Is the immediate jewel of their souls: Who steals my purse steals trash ’tis something, nothing ’twas mine, ’tis his, and has been slave to thousands But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him, And makes me poor indeed.
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Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.
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When lenity and cruelty play for a kingdom, the gentler gamester is the soonest winner
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