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| Hung be the heavens with black! | |
| Noble patricians, patrons of my right, defend the justice of my cause with arms. | |
| Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious summer by this son of York; and all the clouds that loured upong our house in the deep bosom of the ocean buried. | |
| I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Aragon comes this night to Messina. | |
| I'll feeze you, in faith. | |
| When shall we three meet again? | |
| Two households, both alike in dignity in fair Verona, where we lay our scene... | |
| Before we proceed any further, hear me speak. | |
| Hence, home, you idle creatures, get you home! | |
| Boatswain! | |
| Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, live registered upon our brazen tombs... | |
| O for a muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention... | |
| To sing a song that old was sung from ashes ancient Gower is come assuming man's infirmities to glad your ear and please your eyes. | |
| So shaken as we are, so wan with care, find we a time for frighted peace to pant and breathe short-winded accents of new broils... | |
| As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a thousand crowns... | |
| Open your ears; for which of you will stop the vent of hearing when loud Rumour speaks? | |
| In sooth, I know not why I am so sad. | |
| If you shall chance, Camillo, to visit Bohemia on the like ocassion wheron my services are now on foot... | |
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| Cease to persuade, my loving Proteus | |
| Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster, hast thou according to thy oath and bond brought hither Henry Hereford... | |
| I wonder how the King escaped our hands? | |
| I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall. | |
| Proceed, Solinus, to procure my fall, and by the doom of death end woes and all. | |
| Tush, never tell me! | |
| Now say, Chatillon, what would France with us? | |
| As by your high imperial majesty I had in charge at my depart for France, as Procurator to your excellene, to marry Princess Margaret for your grace... | |
| In delivering my son from me I bury a second husband. | |
| Now, fair Hippolyta, our nuptial hour draws on apace. | |
| Escalus. | |
| In Troy there lies the scene. | |
| Who's there? | |
| Sir Hugh, persuade me not. | |
| If music be the food of love, play on... | |
| You do not meet a man but frowns. | |
| Good day, sir. | |
| Nay, but this dotage of our General's O'erflows the measure. | |
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