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I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered.
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
Hath
Oppression
Tyranny
Sways
Begin
Aged
Politics
Fond
Age
Bondage
Power
Suffered
Find
Idle
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I 'gin to be aweary of the sun, And wish th' estate o' th' world were now undone.
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Nothing teems But hateful docks, rough thistles, kecksies, burs, Losing both beauty and utility.
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I had as lief have been myself alone.
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For now they kill me with a living death.
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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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The extreme parts of time extremely forms all causes to the purpose of his speed.
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I pray you bear me henceforth from the noise and rumour of the field, where I may think the remnant of my thoughts in peace, and part of this body and my soul with contemplation and devout desires.
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Fools are not mad folks.
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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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My friends were poor, but honest, so's my love.
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Sometimes, less is more.
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O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.
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Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
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How poor are they that have have not patients.
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Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.
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Hadst thou no poison mixed, no sharp-ground knife, No sudden mean of death, though ne'er so mean, But 'banished' to kill me--'banished'? O friar, the damned use that word in hell Howling attends it! How hast thou the heart, Being a divine, a ghostly confessor, A sin-absolver, and my friend professed, To mangle me with that word 'banished'?
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Or are you like the painting of a sorrow, a face without a heart?
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Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
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The sands are number'd that make up my life Here must I stay, and here my life must end.
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