1963 ordspråk av William Shakespeare
William Shakespeare
O war! thou son of Hell!
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O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful! and yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all whooping!
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O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!
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O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?
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O, call back yesterday, bid time return.
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O, had I but followed the arts!
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O, he sits high in all the people's hearts; And that which would appear offence in us, His countenance, like richest alchemy, Will change to virtue and to worthiness.
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O, hell! to choose love by another's eyes.
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O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
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O, horrible! O, horrible! most horrible!
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O, how full of briers is this working-day world!
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O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven! Keep me in temper. I would not be mad.
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O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.
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O, no! the apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.
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O, pardon me, my lord! it oft falls out, To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean. I something do excuse the thing I hate.
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