1963 ordspråk av William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
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Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.
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Graze on my lips, and if those hills are dry, Stray lower where the pleasant fountains lie
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Great floods have flown from simple sources.
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Greatness knows itself.
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Grief fills the room up of my absent child, lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words.
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Grief makes one hour ten
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Had I but served my God with half the zeal I served my king, he would not in mine age - Have left me naked to mine enemies
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Had you any eye behind you, you might see more detraction at your heels than fortunes before you.
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Hands, speak for me
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Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die.
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Hanging and wiving goes by destiny
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Haply I think on thee, and then my state, Like to the lark at break of day arising From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate; For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings That then I scorn to change my state with kings.
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Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending
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Happy is your Grace That can translate the stubbornness of fortune Into so quiet and so sweet a style
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