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O excellent! I love long life better than figs.
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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.
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Vanity keeps persons in favor with themselves who are out of favor with all others.
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Soft pity enters an iron gate.
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She dreams of him that has forgot her love; You dote on her that cares not for your love. 'Tis pity love should be so contrary; And thinking of it makes me cry 'alas!
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Let me have men about me that are fat... Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
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Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
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Time is a very bankrupt and owes more than he's worth to season. Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say, That Time comes stealing on by night and day?
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I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.
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For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
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My noble father, I do perceive here a divided duty. To you I am bound for life and education. My life and education both do learn me How to respect you. You are the lord of my duty, I am hitherto your daughter. But here’s my husband, And so much duty as my mother showed To you, preferring you before her father, So much I challenge that I may profess Due to the Moor my lord.
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Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian or an ordinary man has; but I am a great eater of beef, and I believe that does harm to my wit.
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Heaven is above all yet; there sits a judge, That no king can corrupt.
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He does it with better grace, but I do it more natural.
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When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.
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The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague us.
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Time is the nurse and breeder of all good.
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Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?
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A man I am cross'd with adversity.
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Hold, or cut bowstrings.
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For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?
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We make ourselves fools to disport ourselves And spend our flatteries to drink those men Upon whose age we void it up again With poisonous spite and envy.
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Though men can cover crimes with bold, stern looks, poor women's faces are their own faults' books.
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If I shall be condemned Upon surmises, all proofs sleeping else But what your jealousies awake, I tell you 'Tis rigor and not law.