William Shakespeare

Where the bee sucks, there suck I In the cow-slip's bell i lie There I couch when owls do cry

LEONATO Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. BEATRICE Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren; and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.

For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth, Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech, To stir men's blood: I only speak right on; I tell you that which you yourselves do know.

Let me embrace thee, sour adversity, for wise men say it is the wisest course.

Our jovial star reigned at his birth.

All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me.

He that wants money, means, and content is without three good friends.

Jesters do oft prove prophets.

Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am loved of all ladies, only you excepted: and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart; for, truly, I love none. Beatrice: A dear happiness to women: they would else have been troubled with a pernicious suitor. I thank God and my cold blood, I am of your humour for that: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me. -Much Ado About Nothing

There's many a man has more hair than wit.

But if it be a sin to covet honour, I am the most offending soul alive.

Love adds a precious seeing to the eye.

God hath given you one face, and you make yourselves another.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.

Sir Andrew Ague-Cheek: I'll stay a month longer. I am a fellow o' the strangest mind i' the world; I delight in masques and revels sometimes altogether (He's an oddity in that he enjoys having fun)

Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strewn: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!

I will speak daggers to her, but use none.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.

O God, I could be bound in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space – were it not that I have bad dreams.

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.