William Shakespeare

If I be waspish, best beware my sting.

Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.

This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.

Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night Like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear, Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear. So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows. The measure done, I’ll watch her place of stand, And, touching hers, make blessèd my rude hand. Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight! For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.

Too much of water hast thou, poor Ophelia, And therefore I forbid my tears: But yet It is our trick; nature her custom holds, Let shame say what it will: when these are gone, The woman will be out. — Adieu, my lord! I have a speech of fire, that fain would blaze, But that this folly drowns it.

we are the lords of all eternity

The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.

If one good deed in all my life I did, I do repent it from my very soul.

The one I love is the son of the one I hate! -Juliet p. 75

Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core, in my heart of heart, as I do thee.

O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth, / That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!

But if the while I think on thee, dear friend, All losses are restored and sorrows end.

There is nothing serious in Mortality

Hot blood begets hot thoughts, And hot thoughts beget Hot deeds, And hot deeds is love.

A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!

Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.

What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, That he should weep for her?

A happy ending cannot come in the middle of the story

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.

How low am I, thou painted maypole?

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest, And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From this world-wearied flesh. Eyes, look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss A dateless bargain to engrossing death!