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They have a plentiful lack of wit.
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Sir, the year growing ancient, Not yet on summer's death nor on the birth Of trembling winter, the fairest flowers o' th' season Are our carnations and streaked gillyvors, Which some call nature's bastards.
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Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.
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If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.
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What is the city but the people?
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Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.
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The coward dies a thousand deaths, the valiant, only once!
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Then was I as a tree whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night, a storm or robbery, call it what you will, shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves, and left me bare to weather.
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You are not wood, you are not stones, but men; And being men, hearing the will of Caesar, It will inflame you, it will make you mad.
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Still constant is a wondrous excellence.
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No .... holy father, throw away that thought. Believe not that the dribbling dart of love Can pierce a complete bosom.
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Hanging and wiving goes by destiny.
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Ingratitude is monstrous.
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Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell.
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He that loves to be flattered is worthy o' the flatterer.
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Why should honor outlive honestly? Orthello
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Truly the souls of men are full of dread: Ye cannot reason almost with a man That looks not heavily and full of fear.
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A very scurvy fellow.
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Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so; Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.
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Fight to the last gasp.
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Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
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I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw.
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And it is very much lamented,... That you have no such mirrors as will turn Your hidden worthiness into your eye That you might see your shadow.
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If you have tears, prepare to shed them now.