Literature Quiz / Shakespeare play from quotes

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Can you name the Shakespeare plays from quotes?

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

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