| Quote | Play | Speaker |
|---|
| The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo. | |
| Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,/But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,/Chaos is come again. | |
| As flies to wanton boys are we to th' gods,/They kill us for their sport. | |
| How use doth breed a habit in a man! | |
| For God’s sake, let us sit upon the ground/And tell sad stories of the death of kings. | |
| Let’s go hand in hand, not one before another | |
| All the world ’s a stage,/And all the men and women merely players. | |
| O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend/The brightest heaven of invention! | |
| His nature is too noble for the world:/He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,/Or Jove for ’s power to thunder. | |
| And many strokes, though with a little axe,/Hew down and fell the hardest-timbered oak. | |
| He that hath a beard is more than a youth, and he that hath no beard is less than a man. | |
| A plague o’ both your houses! | |
| Lord, what fools these mortals be! | |
| Golden lads and girls all must,/As chimney-sweepers, come to dust. | |
| If it were done when ’t is done, then ’t were well/It were done quickly | |
| As an arrow shot/From a well-experienc’d archer hits the mark/His eye doth level at. | |
| Had I but served my God with half the zeal/I served my king, he would not in mine age/Have left me naked to mine enemies. | |
| If music be the food of love, play on | |
| We have heard the chimes at midnight. | |
| | Quote | Play | Speaker |
|---|
| The eagle suffers little birds to sing. | |
| Such duty as the subject owes the prince,/Even such a woman oweth to her husband. | |
| Men shut their doors against a setting sun. | |
| To unpathed waters, undreamed shores. | |
| The common curse of mankind,—folly and ignorance. | |
| The better part of valour is discretion. | |
| Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world/Like a Colossus, and we petty men/Walk under his huge legs and peep about/To find ourselves dishonourable graves. | |
| Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale/Her infinite variety. | |
| The quality of mercy is not strain’d | |
| Now is the winter of our discontent/Made glorious summer by this sun of York | |
| That no Italian priest/Shall tithe or toll in our dominions. | |
| The first thing we do, let’s kill all the lawyers. | |
| Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall. | |
| Our revels now are ended. | |
| A young man married is a man that ’s marr’d | |
| O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,/Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! | |
| Hung be the heavens with black, yield day to night! | |
| I will make a Star-chamber matter of it. | |
|
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