Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
Don Pedro: Will you have me, lady?
Beatrice: No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days. Your grace is too costly to wear everyday.
BENEDICK: Is’t come to this? In faith, hath not the world one man but he will wear his cap with suspicion? Shall I never see a bachelor of three-score again?
I will be correspondent to command,
And do my spiriting gently.
Let me play the fool!
Sweet are the uses of adversity,
Which like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in the stones, and good in every thing.
The very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind;
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
I said, an elder soldier, not a better:
Did I say “better”?
His heart and hand both open and both free;
For what he has he gives, what thinks he shows;
Yet gives he not till judgment guide his bounty.
Claudio: Friendship is constant in all other things, save in the office and affairs of love.
BEATRICE: No, not till a hot January.
Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.
The villany you teach me I will execute, and it shall go hard, but I will better the instruction.
My age is as a lusty winter, frosty, but kindly.
I hold ambition of so light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow.
My salad days, when I was green in judgement, cold in blood.
Taste your legs, sir; put them to motion.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more.
Men were deceivers ever.
One foot in sea and one on shore,
to one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so but let them go
and be you blithe and bonny,
converting all your sounds of woe
into hey nonny nonny.
BENEDICK: What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living?
BEATRICE: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick? Courtesy itself must convert to disdain, if you come in her presence.
There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with’t.
If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players.
They have their exits and their enterances,
And one man in his time plays many parts.
To sleep, perchance to dream.
Ambition, the soldier’s virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.