| First Line of Character | Character |
|---|
| So foul and fair a day I have not seen. | |
| Thou are so fat-witted with drinking of old sack, and unbuttoning thee after supper, and sleeping upon benches after noon... | |
| What country, friends, is this? | |
| I can but say their protestation over. | |
| 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 do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. | |
| No more amazement. Tell your piteous heart there's no harm done. | |
| Go bear it to the Centaur, where we host, and say there, Dromio, till I come to thee. | |
| Always obedient to your grace's will, I come to know your pleasure. | |
| I have, Antiochus, and with a soul emboldened with the glory of her praise think death no hazard in this enterprise. | |
| Imprisoned is he, say you? | |
| Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus. | |
| Attend my lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester. | |
| Thanks. What's the matter, you dissentious rogues, that, rubbing the poor itch of your opinion, make yourselves scabs? | |
| 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. | |
| Verona, for a while I take my leave to see my friend in Padua. | |
| | First Line of Character | Character |
|---|
| Now say, Chatillon, what would France with us? | |
| There's beggary in the love that can be reckoned. | |
| Princes, what grief hath set the jaundice on your cheeks? | |
| I am, my lord, as well derived as he, as well possessed. | |
| Stay your thanks a while, and pay them when you part. | |
| In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. | |
| 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. | |
| Benedick, didst thou note the daughter of Signor Leonato? | |
| Hail, Rome, victorious in thy mourning weeds! | |
| Calpurnia. | |
| 'Tis better as it is. | |
| 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. | |
| Ay me, sad hours seem long. | |
| 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? | |
| Now, Master Shallow, you'll complain of me to the King? | |
|
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