1963 ordspråk av William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
In scorn of nature, art gave lifeless life.
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In short whoever you may be, To this conclusion you'll agree, When everyone is somebodee, Then no one's anybody!
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In sleep a king, but, waking, no such matter
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In the corrupted currents of this word offence's gilded hand may solve by justice, and oft, tis seen the wicked prize itself buys out the law: but 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies in his true nature; And we ourselves
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In the south suburbs, at the Elephant, Is best to lodge.
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In the spring time, the only pretty ring time, When birds do sing, hey ding a ding; Sweet lovers love the spring.
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In the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when I have made it empty
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In this weak piping time of peace.
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In thy face I see the map of honor, truth, and loyalty
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In time the savage bull doth bear the yoke.
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In time we hate that which we often fear.
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Indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
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Infirm of purpose!
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Ingratitude is monstrous
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Insensible of mortality, and desperately mortal.
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