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

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