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What wouldst thou do, old man? Think'st thou that duty shall have dread to speak When power to flattery bows?
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
Shall
Fear
Wouldst
Speak
Flattery
Power
Bows
Men
Dread
Think
Corruption
Thinking
Thou
Duty
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The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows. They are polluted off'rings, more abhorred! Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
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Reputation, reputation, reputation! O, I ha' lost my reputation, I ha' lost the immortal part of myself, and what remains is bestial!
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What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
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Nature does require her time of preservation, which perforce, I her frail son amongst my brethren mortal, must give my attendance to.
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Travelers never did lie, though fools at home condemn them.
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So loving to my mother, That he might not beteem the winds of heaven, Visit her face' too roughly.
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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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Their lips were four red roses on a stalk.
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I’ll look to like, if looking liking move But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.
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You are strangely troublesome.
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Fill all thy bones with aches.
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I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest.
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God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.
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Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.
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Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward! Thou little valiant, great in villainy! Thou ever strong upon the stronger side! Thou Fortune's champion, that dost never fight But where her humorous ladyship is by To teach thee safety.
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Let each man do his best.
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Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.
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And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
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A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.
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Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.
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