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Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues.
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
Right
Carry
Silence
Tongues
Hand
Envious
Winning
Wins
Peace
Corruption
Hands
Gentle
Stills
Tongue
Still
Honesty
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His steeds to water at those springs On chaliced flowers that lies And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes: With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise.
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This sleep is sound indeed this is a sleep That from this golden rigol hath divorc'd So many English kings.
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For it falls out That what we have we prize not to the worth Whiles we enjoy it, but being lacked and lost, Why, then we rack the value, then we find The virtue that possession would not show us While it was ours.
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Thou whoreson, senseless villain!
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A tardiness in nature, Which often leaves the history unspoke, That it intends to do.
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Adversity makes strange bedfellows.
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Every subject's duty is the Kings, but every subject's soul is his own.
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If thou art rich, thou art poor for, like an ass, whose back with ingots bows, thou bearest thy heavy riches but a journey, and death unloads thee.
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My long sickness Of health and living now begins to mend, And nothing brings me all things.
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[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.
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But there is no such man for, brother, men Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel but, tasting it, Their counsel turns to passion, which before Would give preceptial medicine to rage, Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, Charm ache with air and agony with words.
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In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.
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If she be not honest, chaste, and true, there's no man happy.
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Dream in light years, challenge miles, walk step by step
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I am disgraced, impeached, and baffled here, Pierced to the soul with slander's venomed spear.
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Press not a falling man too far 'tis virtue: His faults lie open to the laws let them, Not you, correct him.
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Young men's love then lies not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
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Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short he tires betimes that spurs too fast.
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Love will not be spurred to what it loathes
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