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Shakespeare quotes on rudeLet those whom nature hath not made for store, Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish 32 If thou survive my well-contented day, When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover And shalt by fortune Source: THE SONNETS SONG Blow, blow, thou winter wind, Thou art not so unkind As man's ingratitude; Thy tooth is not so keen, Because thou art not seen, Although thy breath be rude Prithee, fair youth, Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds By this rude place we live in What is the cause, Laertes, That thy rebellion looks so giantlike? Let him go, Gertrude For the box of the ear that the Prince gave you- he gave it like a rude prince, and you took it like a sensible lord My high-blown pride At length broke under me, and now has left me, Weary and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me You are to blame, Knowing she will not lose her wonted greatness, To use so rude behaviour But if you fondly pass our proffer'd offer, 'Tis not the roundure of your old-fac'd walls Can hide you from our messengers of war, Though all these English and their discipline Were harbour'd in their rude circumference Be of good comfort, Prince; for you are born To set a form upon that indigest Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude A most acute juvenal; volable and free of grace! By thy favour, sweet welkin, I must sigh in thy face; Most rude melancholy, valour gives thee place Sir, it is the King's most sweet pleasure and affection to congratulate the Princess at her pavilion, in the posteriors of this day; which the rude multitude call the afternoon Take him to prison, officer; Correction and instruction must both work Ere this rude beast will profit See this be done, And sent according to command; whiles I Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand Th' imaginary relish is so sweet That it enchants my sense; what will it be When that the wat'ry palate tastes indeed Love's thrice-repured nectar? Death, I fear me; Swooning destruction; or some joy too fine, Too subtle-potent, tun'd too sharp in sweetness, For the capacity of my ruder powers We two, that with so many thousand sighs Did buy each other, must poorly sell ourselves With the rude brevity and discharge of one He hath indeed, almost natural; for, besides that he's a fool, he's a great quarreller; and but that he hath the gift of a coward to allay the gust he hath in quarrelling, 'tis thought among the prudent he would quickly have the gift of a grave Quotes for: Shakespeare Quotes
Source: Project Gutenburg Texts
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