1963 ordspråk av William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
Adversity's sweet milk, philosophy
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Affection faints not like a pale-faced coward, But then woos best when most his choice is froward.
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Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, and thou art wedded to calamity.
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Affliction may one day smile again; and till then, sit thee down, sorrow!
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After life's fitful fever he sleeps well. Treason has done his worst. Nor steel nor poison, malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing can touch him further.
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Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety, other women cloy
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Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety. Other women cloy the appetites they feed, but she makes hungry where most she satisfies.
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Age, I do abhor thee, youth, I do adore thee.
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Alas, how love can trifle with itself!
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Alas, our frailty is the cause, not we: For such as we are made of, such we be
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Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy...
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All goodness Is poison to thy stomach.
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All impediments in fancy's course Are motives of more fancy.
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All is but toys: renown, and grace, is dead; The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees Is left this vault to brag of
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All is not well; I doubt some foul play.
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