Literature Quiz / Shakespeare play from quotes

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Can you name the Shakespeare plays from quotes?

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

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