Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
Virtue is chok’d with foul ambition.
Beatrice: The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.
To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed
The Devil can cite scripture to suit his purpose.
You know me well, and herein spend but time
To wind about my love with circumstance
And out of doubt you do me now more wrong.
She should have died hereafter- there would have been time for such a thing.
Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet.
O, I have passed a miserable night,
So full of ugly dreams, of ugly sights,
That, as I am a Christian faithful man,
I would not spend another such a night
Though ’twere to buy a world of happy days,
So full of dismal terror was the time.
He takes false shadows for true substances.
Don Pedro: Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.
Beatrice: No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.
So are you to my thoughts as food to life
Or as sweet seasoned showers are to the ground
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As twix’t a miser and his wealth is foun
`Now proud as an enjoyer, and ano
`Doubting the filching age will his treasure
Now counting best to be with you alone
Then bettered that the world may see my pleasure
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight
And by and by clean starved for a look
Possessing or pursuing no delight
Save what is had or must from you be took
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day
Or gluttoning on all, or all away
Young in limbs, in judgement old.
In Belmont is a lady richly left
And she is fair.
I have no spur to prick the sides of my intent, but only vaulting ambition, which o’erleaps itself, and falls on the other.
Prologue: For us, and for our tragedy,
Here stooping to your clemency,
We beg your hearing patiently.
Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow,
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Things won are done, joy’s soul lies in the doing.
Leonato: O Lord, my lord, if they were but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.
Gonzalo: Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a dry death.
All that glisters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told;
Many a man his life hath sold
But my outside to behold.
If you repay not on such a day
let the forfeit be an equal pound
of your fair flesh.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
O, from this time forth
My thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!