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Ay, is it not a language I speak?
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He that dies this year is quit for the next.
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Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
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It is my soul that calls upon my name; How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night, like softest music to attending ears! -Romeo
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Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee Calls back the lovely April of her prime...
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O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
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Away, you trifler! Love! I love thee not, I care not for thee, Kate: this is no world To play with mammets and to tilt with lips: We must have bloody noses and cracked crowns.
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For she had eyes and chose me.
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Avaunt, you cullions!
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Were it good To set the exact wealth of all our states All at one cast? to set so rich a main On the nice hazard of one doubtful hour? It were not good.
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O, then, what graces in my love do dwell, that he hath turn'd a heaven unto hell.
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Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.
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Well, honor is the subject of my story.
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These blessed candles of the night.
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Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service
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He is as full of valor as of kindness. Princely in both.
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By Heaven, I love thee better than myself.
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Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice To change true rules for odd inventions.
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A horse, a horse, my kingdom for a horse!
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Thou art a slave, whom fortune's tender arm With favour never clasp'd; but bred a dog.
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My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.
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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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My age is as a lusty winter, frosty but kindly.
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Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.