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I'll not meddle with it; it is a dangerous thing; it makes a man a coward; a man cannot steal, but it accuseth him; a man cannot swear, but it checks him; a man cannot lie with his neighbor's wife, but it detects him. 'Tis a blushing, shame -faced spirit, that mutinies in a man's bosom ; it fills one full of obstacles; it made me once restore a purse of gold that by chance I found; it beggars any man that keeps it; it is turned out of all towns and cities for a dangerous thing; and every man that means to live well endeavors to trust to himself and live without it.
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Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!
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There's not a shirt and a half in all my company, and the half shirt is two napkins tacked together and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves.
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The icy precepts of respect.
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Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.
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I will make thee think thy swan a crow.
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Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life's key: be check'd for silence, But never tax'd for speech.
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I am a man more sinned against than sinning
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We must not stint Our necessary actions in the fear To cope malicious censurers, which ever, As rav'nous fishes, do a vessel follow That is new-trimmed, but benefit no further Than vainly longing.
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Hereditary sloth instructs me.
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If I profane with my unworthiest hand This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this: My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.
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Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.
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Now join your hands, and with your hands your hearts.
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If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.
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Faith, I have been a truant in the law And never yet could frame my will to it, And therefore frame the law unto my will.
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Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
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Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
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The southern wind Doth play the trumpet to his purposes; And, by his hollow whistling in the leaves, Foretells a tempest and a blustering day.
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Women are not In their best fortunes strong, but want will perjure the ne'er-touched vestal.
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But O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness through another man's eyes.
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Mechanic slaves With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall Uplift us to the view.
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Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
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Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return to plague the inventor.
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Rightly to be great Is not to stir without great argument, But greatly to find quarrel in a straw When honour's at the stake.