| Lines | Speaker | Play |
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| His life was gentle, and the elements / So mixed in him that nature might stand up / And say to all the world 'This was a man.' | |
| We do pray for mercy, / And that same prayer doth teach us all to render / The deeds of mercy. | |
| I will aggravate my voice so that I will roar you as gently as any sucking dove. I will roar you an 'twere any nightingale. | |
| Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signor Benedick? | |
| My noble father, / I do perceive here a divided duty. | |
| Then am I kinged again, and by and by / Think that I am unkinged by Bolingbroke, / And straight am nothing. | |
| There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's some for me. | |
| This island's mine, by Sycorax my mother, / Which thou tak'st from me. | |
| I know she is an irksome brawling scold. / If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. | |
| This is the feast that I have bid her to, / And this is the banquet she shall surfeit on. | |
| O brave new world / That has such people in't! | |
| Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. ... 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but 'tis enough. 'Twill serve. | |
| The powers that he already hath in Gallia / Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves / His war for Britain. | |
| It is the law, not I, condemn your brother. / Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son, / It should be thus with him. He must die tomorrow. | |
| So thanks to all at once, and to each one, / Whom we invite to see us crowned at Scone. | |
| | Lines | Speaker | Play |
|---|
| From Alexandria / This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes / The lamps of night in revel. | |
| Because I cannot flatter and look fair, / Smile in men's faces, smooth, deceive, and cog ... I must be held a rancorous enemy. | |
| Conceal me what I am, and be my aid ... I'll serve this duke. / Thou shalt present me as an eunuch to him. | |
| You gave me nothing for't. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle? | |
| For suff'rance is the badge of all our tribe. / You call me misbeliever, cut-throat, dog. | |
| Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? | |
| And you, good yeomen, / Whose limbs were made in England, show us here / The mettle of your pasture. | |
| Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter... As much as child e'er loved, or father found. | |
| You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal--except my life, my life, my life. | |
| I'll no longer be guilty of this sin. This sanguine coward, this bed-presser, this horse-back-breaker, this huge hill of flesh... | |
| Give me my robe. Put on my crown. I have / Immortal longings in me. Now no more / The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip. | |
| Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about. | |
| I never may believe / These antique fables, nor these fairy toys. / Lovers and madmen have such seething brains. | |
| That a woman conceived me, I thank her. That she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks. But ... I will live a bachelor. | |
| I'll lay fourteen of my teeth--and yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four--she's not fourteen. | |
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