Shakespeare Character's First Lines

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Can you name the Shakespeare Characters by First Lines?

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First Line of CharacterCharacter
Always obedient to your grace's will, I come to know your pleasure.
Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster, hast thou according to thy oath and bond brought hither Henry Hereford, they bold son, here to make good the boist'rous late appeal...
I can but say their protestation over.
So shaken as we are, so wan with care, find we a time for frightend peace to pant and breathe short-winded accents of new broils to be commenced in strands afar remote.
So foul and fair a day I have not seen.
Ay me, sad hours seem long.
Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host, and say there, Dromio, till I come to thee.
Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus.
What country, friends, is this?
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad.
Thou are so fat-witted with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon...
Imprisoned is he, say you?
I have, Antiochus, and with a soul emboldened with the glory of her praise think death no hazard in this enterprise.
A little more than kin and less than kind.
Dear Celia, I show more mirth than I am mistress of; and would you yet I were merrier?
I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.
First Line of CharacterCharacter
Uncles of Gloucester and of Winchester, the special watchmen of our English weal, I would prevail, if prayers might prevail to join your hearts in love and amity.
Princes, what grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks?
Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds!
There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned.
Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signor Leonato?
Attend my lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.
Verona, for a while I take my leave to see my friend in Padua.
I am, my lord, as well derived as he, as well possessed.
No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart there's no harm done.
Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues, that, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, make yourselves scabs?
'Tis better as it is.
Stay your thanks a while, and pay them when you part.
Now say, Chatillon, what would France with us?
Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York; and all the clouds that loured upon our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me to the King?

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