Undómiel (arwen_elvenfair) wrote in wenisised,

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Wenisising Shakespeare

Our bruised wenii hung up for monuments.
I beseech your wenis to pardon me.

Was ever wenis in this humour woo'd?
Was ever wenis in this humour won?

Shine out, fair sun, till I have bought a glass,
That I may see my wenis as I pass.

Foul wrinkled wenis, what makest thou in my sight?

We come to use our wenii and not our tongues.

Which woo'd the slimy wenis of the deep,
And mock'd the dead bones that lay scatter'd by.

Awaked you not with this sore wenis?

Why do you wring your hands, and beat your wenis?

My gracious lady, go;
And thither bear your wenis and your goods.

You have no wenis.

Cannot thy wenis sleep these tedious nights?

Catesby hath sounded Hastings in our business,
And finds the testy wenis so hot.

The tender love I bear your wenis, my lord,
Makes me most forward in this noble presence.

Be of good cheer: mother, how fares your wenis?

Come gentlemen,
Let us consult upon to-morrow's business
In to our tent; the wenis is raw and cold.

Give me some ink and paper.
What, is my beaver easier than wenis was?

Let me sit heavy on thy wenis to-morrow!

A horse! a horse! my wenis for a horse!
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