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Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered!
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In sooth I know not why I am so sad. It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn.
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You know who you are, but know not who you could be.
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The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.
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The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?
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We are such stuff that dreams are made of.
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You are strangely troublesome.
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Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate, Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving.
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O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.
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what cannot be saved when fate takes, patience her injury a mockery makes
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If music be the food of love, play on.
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Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
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Men that make Envy and crooked malice nourishment, Dare bite the best.
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Nothing 'gainst Times scythe can make defence.
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A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.
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Thus may poor fools Belive false teachers.
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Though inclination be as sharp as will, My stronger guilt defeats my strong intent, And, like a man to double business bound, I stand in pause where I shall first begin, And both neglect.
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So well thy words become thee as thy wounds.
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Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.
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There's rosemary and rue. These keep Seeming and savor all the winter long. Grace and remembrance be to you.
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The more pity, that fools may not speak wisely what wise men do foolishly.
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For there was never yet philosoper That could endure the toothache patiently, However they have writ the style of gods, And made a push at chance and sufferance.
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If your mind dislike anything obey it
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My language! heavens!I am the best of them that speak this speech. Were I but where 'tis spoken.