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O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art.
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
Wrong
Sad
Upon
Wound
Eye
Justify
Use
Wounds
Art
Lays
Power
Sadness
Unkindness
Heart
Tongue
Slay
Call
Thine
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To show an unfelt sorrow is an office Which the false man does easy.
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An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not.
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Good God, the souls of all my tribe defend From jealousy!
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Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe
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Youth is full of sport, age's breath is short youth is nimble, age is lame Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold Youth is wild, and age is tame.
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A maiden hath no tongue--but thought.
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There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.
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Every true man's apparel fits your thief.
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My free drift Halts not particularly, but moves itself In a wide sea of wax no levelled malice Infects one comma in the course I hold, But flies an eagle flight, bold and forth on, Leaving no tract behind.
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Give thanks for what you are today and go on fighting for what you gone be tomorrow
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Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.
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Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.
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I have not slept one wink.
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O heresy in fair, fit for these days, A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
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Reflection is the business of man a sense of his state is his first duty: but who remembereth himself in joy? Is it not in mercy then that sorrow is allotted unto us?
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What's the newest grief? Each minute tunes a new one.
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I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.
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Put forth thy hand, reach at the glorious gold.
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a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief
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These violent delights have violent ends And in their triumph die, like fire and powder, Which as they kiss consume. The sweetest honey Is loathsome in his own deliciousness And in the taste confounds the appetite. Therefore love moderately long love doth so Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
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