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

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