Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
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!
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
Beatrice: You always end with a jade’s trick. I know you of old.
Benedick: I may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me, because I have railed so long against marriage: but doth not the appetite alter? a man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot endure in his age.
Prospero: What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?
Ornament is but the guiled shore to a most dangerous sea.
That’s certain. I for my part knew the tailor
That made the wings she flew withal.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
Lord, what fools these mortals be!