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A thousand moral paintings I can show That shall demonstrate these quick blows of Fortune's More pregnantly than words.
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She is your treasure, she must have a husband; I must dance bare-foot on her wedding day, And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell.
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Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
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The prize of all too precious you.
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Brutus, I do observe you now of late: I have not from your eyes that gentleness And show of love as I was wont to have: You bear too stubborn and too strange a hand Over your friend that loves you. Poor Brutus, with himself at war, Forgets the shows of love to other men.
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Things may serve long, but not serve ever.
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If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not toalter me.
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Beauty lives with kindness.
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Soft pity enters an iron gate.
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Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
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Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
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There's many a man hath more hair than wit.
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Here's flowers for you; Hot lavender, mints, savoury, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun And with him rises weeping: these are flowers Of middle summer, and I think they are given To men of middle age.
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There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.
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By innocence I swear, and by my youth, I have one heart, one bosom, and one truth, And that no woman has, nor never none Shall mistress be of it save I alone.
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You may my Glories and my State depose, But not my Griefes; still am I King of those.
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There is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.
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Being of no power to make his wishes good: His promises fly so beyond his state That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes For every word.
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There is a river in Macedon, and there is moreover a river in Monmouth. It is called Wye at Monmouth, but it is out of my prains what is the name of the other river; but 'tis all one, 'tis alike as my fingers is to my fingers, and there is salmons in both.
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Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow, And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow; Thou canst help time to furrow me with age, But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage.
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Beauty's a doubtful good, a glass, a flower, Lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour; And beauty, blemish'd once, for ever's lost, In spite of physic, painting, pain, and cost.
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Vanity keeps persons in favor with themselves who are out of favor with all others.
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Even through the hollow eyes of death I spy life peering.
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Either to die the death or to abjure For ever the society of men. Therefore, fair Hermia, question your desires; Know of your youth, examine well your blood, Whether, if you yield not to your father's choice, You can endure the livery of a nun, For aye to be in shady cloister mew'd, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessed they that master so their blood, To undergo such maiden pilgrimage; But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd, Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives and dies in single blessedness.