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Women being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the walls.
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
Women
Ever
Vessels
Weaker
Thrust
Vessel
Walls
Wall
More quotes by William Shakespeare
Methinks you are my glass, and not my brother: I see by you I am a sweet-faced youth.
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The smallest worm will turn being trodden on, And doves will peck in safeguard of their brood.
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Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed.
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My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept, Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except.
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Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.
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A maiden hath no tongue--but thought.
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Lord Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words. Lord Polonius: What is the matter, my lord? Hamlet: Between who? Lord Polonius: I mean, the matter that you read, my lord.
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There's no better sign of a brave mind than a hard hand.
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How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?
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Things won are done, joy's soul lies in the doing.
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Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted colour off ... Do not for ever with thy vailed lids Seek for thy noble father in the dust.
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No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
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To England will I steal, and there I'll steal.
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And it is very much lamented,... That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow.
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So. Lie there, my art.
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Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.
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My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.
William Shakespeare
She speaks poniards, and every word stabs: if her breath were as terrible as her terminations, there were no living near her she would infect to the north star. I would not marry her, though she were endowed with all that Adam bad left him before he transgressed.
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How strange or odd some'er I bear myself, As I perchance hereafter shall think meet To put an antic disposition on.
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The play's the thing.
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