1963 ordspråk av William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
These are but wild and whirling words.
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These earthly godfathers of Heaven's lights, that give a name to every fixed star, have no more profit of their shining nights than those that walk and know not what they are.
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These high wild hills and rough uneven ways Draw out our miles and make them wearisome; But yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar, Making the hard way sweet and delectable.
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These most brisk and giddy-paced times.
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These violent delights have violent ends.
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These words are razors to my wounded heart.
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They are all but stomachs, and we all but food; They eat us hungerly, and when they are full, They belch us
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They are as sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
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They are but beggars that can count their worth, but my true love is grown to such excess, I cannot sum up half my sum of wealth.
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They do not love that do not show their love.
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They do not love that do not show their love. The course of true love never did run smooth. Love is a familiar. Love is a devil. There is no evil angel but Love.
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They fool me to the top of my bent.
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They have a plentiful lack of wit
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They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.
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They have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor
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