William Shakespeare

If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offending soul.

Romeo: Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much. Mercutio: No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me a grave man.

I do oppose_x000D_ _x000D_ My patience to his fury, and am arm'd_x000D_ _x000D_ To suffer, with a quietness of spirit,_x000D_ _x000D_ The very tyranny and rage of his.

My story starts at sea... a perilous voyage to an unknown land... a shipwreck... The wild waters roar and heave... The brave vessel is dashed all to pieces, and all the helpless souls within her drowned... all save one... a lady... whose soul is greater than the ocean... and her spirit stronger than the sea's embrace... Not for her a watery end, but a new life beginning on a stranger shore. It will be a love story... for she will be my heroine for all time. And her name will be... Viola.

When holy and devout religious men are at their beads, 'tis hard to draw them thence; so sweet is zealous contemplation.

A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins.

Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

The poet's eye, in a fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to Earth, from Earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shape, and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name; such tricks hath strong imagination.

. . from this moment The very firstlings of my heart shall be The firstlings of my hand. And even now, To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done.

There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, And then is heard no more. It is a tale Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, Signifying nothing.

So we grew together like to a double cherry, seeming parted, but yet an union in partition, two lovely berries molded on one stem.

That's a valiant flea that dares eat his breakfast on the lip of a lion.

Can you nominate in order now the degrees of the lie? I will name you the degrees. The first, the Retort Courteous; the second, the Quip Modest; the third, the Reply Churlish; the fourth, the Reproof Valiant; the fifth; the Countercheck Quarrelsome; the sixth, the Lie with Circumstance; the seventh, the Lie Direct. All these you may avoid but the Lie Direct; and you may avoid that too, with an If. . . . Your If is the only peace-maker; much virtue in If.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

The valiant never taste of death but once.

You have too much respect upon the world; They lose it that do buy it with much care

O polished perturbation! golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide To many a watchful night.

I am sure care's an enemy to life.

Tis our fast intent To shake all cares and business from our age, Conferring them on younger strengths, while we Unburdened crawl toward death.

Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream—For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause, there's the respect, That makes calamity of so long life