Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
The old folk, time’s doting chronicles.
Don Pedro: Come, lady, come; you have lost the heart of Signior Benedick.
Beatrice: Indeed, my lord, he lent it me awhile; and I gave him use for it, a double heart for his single one: marry, once before he won it of me with false dice, therefore your grace may well say I have lost it.
Don Pedro: You have put him down, lady, you have put him down.
I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.
Prospero: We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
If every ducat in six thousand ducats
Were in six parts, and every part a ducat
I would not draw them. I would have my bond.
What’s done cannot be undone.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
and thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this reagard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.
O! I am Fortune’s fool.
So wise so young, they say, do never live long.
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.