The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation that away Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.
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Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
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Ay every inch a king.
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Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault dear Brutus is not in our stars But in ourselves that we are underlings.
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Our doubts are traitors and make us lose the good we oft might win by fearing to attempt.
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I to myself am dearer than a friend.
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Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie.
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Men at some time are masters of their fates.
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My heart is ever at your service.
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O shame! Where is they blush?
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Ships are but boards sailors but men.
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I am a man More sinnd against than sinning.
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I am disgracd impeachd and baffled here - Piercd to the soul with slanders venomd spear.
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Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleave of care The death of each days life sore labours bath Balm of hurt minds great natures second course Chief nourisher in lifes feast.
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To sleep! perchance to dream ay theres the rub For in that sleep of death what dreams may come When we have shuffled off this mortal coil Must give us pause.
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O sleep O gentle sleep Natures soft nurse.
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Whats gone and whats past help should be past grief.
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When sorrows come they come not as single spies But in battalions!
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More in sorrow than in anger.
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The empty vessel makes the greatest sound.
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