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You take my house when you do take the prop That doth sustain my house you take my life When you do take the means whereby I live.
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
Mean
Venice
Life
Doth
Sustain
Punishment
Means
Prop
House
Merchants
Live
Whereby
Take
Props
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It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.
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That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.
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Friendship is constant in all other things Save in the office and affairs of love. Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues. Let every eye negotiate for itself, And trust no agent for beauty is a witch Against whose charms faith melteth into blood.
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A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.
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The wheel is come full circle.
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I may neither choose who I would, nor refuse who I dislike so is the will of a living daughter curbed by the will of a dead father.
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They have a plentiful lack of wit.
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Love laughs at locksmiths.
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Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
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Keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lender's books, and defy the foul fiend.
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What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within's two hours.
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No matter where of comfort no man speak: Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs Make dust our paper and with rainy eyes Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth
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Out, damned spot! Out, I say!
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God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.
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It is the disease of not listening...... that I am troubled with.
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Lay her i' the earth: And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring! I tell thee, churlish priest, A ministering angel shall my sister be, When thou liest howling. HAMLET. What, the fair Ophelia! QUEEN GERTRUDE. Sweets to the sweet: farewell!
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Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.
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I cannot speak your england.
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Is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
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But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.
William Shakespeare