Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages.
Though she be but little, she is fierce!
But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
To be or not to be that is the question.
Plain and not honest is too harsh a style.
In jest, there is truth.
Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.
This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.
You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care.
O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !
Two stars keep not their motion in one sphere.
Suffer love! A good ephitet! I do suffer love indeed, for I love thee against my will.
There are occasions and causes, why and wherefore in all things.
There are many events in the womb of time which will be delivered.
You don’t have to die in the next year if you die this year.
In rage deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.
More light and light, more dark and dark our woes.
You pay a great deal too dear for what’s given freely.
What a piece of work is a man, How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty, In form and moving how express and admirable, In action how like an Angel, In apprehension how like a god, The beauty of the world, The paragon of animals. And yet to me, what is this quintessence of dust?
Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks, but I thank you; and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny.