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I have trod a measure, I have flattered a lady, I have been politic with my friend, smooth with mine enemy.
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
Lady
Measure
Dancing
Politic
Mines
Trod
Mine
Flattered
Court
Flattery
Friend
Smooth
Enemy
Dancer
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Better three hours too soon, than one hour to late.
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We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
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The urging of that word, judgment, hath bred a kind of remorse in me.
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Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain
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What our contempts do often hurl from us, We wish it ours again.
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Is this a dagger which I see before me, The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee. I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible To feeling as to sight? or art thou but A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
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Bow, stubborn knees, and, heart with strings of steel, Be soft as sinews of the new-born babe. All many be well.
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Conscience is a thousand swords.
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Truth will come to sight murder cannot be hid long.
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Thus is his cheek the map of days outworn.
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Self-love, my liege, is not so vile a sin, as self-neglecting.
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Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things. [Act 5, Scene 2]
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O you beast! I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron, That you shall think the devil is come from hell.
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I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.
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Though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is oft let by the nose with gold.
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So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune, That I would set my life on any chance, To mend, or be rid on't.
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He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.
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Be not afraid of greatness.
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Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
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O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
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