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But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings, our unbitted lusts whereof I take this that you call love to bea sect or scion.... It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will.
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
Love
Rage
Carnal
Cool
Sect
Merely
Raging
Blood
Motions
Humanity
Sects
Call
Cynicism
Stings
Reason
Permission
Lusts
Take
Lust
Whereof
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He hath borne himself beyond the promise of his age, doing, in the figure of a lamb, the feats of a lion.
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For murder, though it have no tongue, will speak With most miraculous organ.
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Steed threatens steed, in high and boastful neighs Piercing the night's dull ear and from the tents The armorers accomplishing the knights, With busy hammers closing rivets up, Give dreadful note of preparation.
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Love's gentle spring doth always fresh remain.
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For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground And tell sad stories of the death of kings.
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When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!
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I have seen the day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will right myself like a soldier.
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O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.
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A friend should bear his friend's infirmities.
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Reason thus with life: If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing That none but fools would keep.
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Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.
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A book? O, rare one, Be not, as is our fangled world, a garment Nobler than that it covers.
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Know more than other. Work more than other. Expect less than other
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Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.
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Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth.
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Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face! I had rather lie in the woolen.
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This senior-junior, giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid Regent of love-rhymes, lord of folded arms, The anointed sovereign of sighs and groans, Liege of all loiterers and malcontents.
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No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure 'scape back- wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue?
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Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.
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No longer mourn for me when I am dead Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell Give warning to the world that I am fled From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell.
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