Shakespeare play from quotes

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Can you name the Shakespeare plays from quotes?

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

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