Paul Catty spricht . . .
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William Shakespeare
Make that thy question, and go rot!
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William Shakespeare
Love comforteth like sunshine after rain.
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William Shakespeare
We have seen better days.
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William Shakespeare
Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!
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William Shakespeare
Caesar: The ides of March are come. Soothsayer: Ay, Caesar; but not gone.
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William Shakespeare
Let me have men about me that are fat; Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights; Yond' Cassius has a lean and hungry look; He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.
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William Shakespeare
She had all the royal makings of a queen.
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William Shakespeare
Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.
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William Shakespeare
Doomsday is near; die all, die merrily.
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William Shakespeare
The ears are senseless that should give us hearing, To tell him his commandment is fulfilled, That Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead.
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William Shakespeare
The rest is silence.
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William Shakespeare
I must be cruel only to be kind.
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William Shakespeare
For, O! for, O! the hobby-horse is forgot.
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William Shakespeare
To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing end them?To die: to sleep; No more; and, by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep; To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub; For in that sleep of death whatdreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life; For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of disprized love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of the unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? Who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have, Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience doth make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pith and moment With this regard their currents turn awry, And lose the name of action.
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William Shakespeare
The play's the thing Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.
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William Shakespeare
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
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William Shakespeare
Polonius: What do you read, my lord? Hamlet: Words, words, words.
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William Shakespeare
Rest, rest, perturbèd spirit.
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William Shakespeare
I wasted time, and now doth time waste me.
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William Shakespeare
It goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me asterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire, why, it appears no other thing to me but a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust? man delights not me; no, nor woman neither, though, by your smiling, you seem to say so.