A jest's prosperity lies in the ear of him that hears it, Never in the tongue of him that makes it.
To bed, to bed! There's a knocking at the gate. Come, come, come, come, give me your hand. What's done cannot be undone. To bed, to bed, to bed!
Oh, I absolutely hate it when I hear some overexcited actor in a wig shout his passionate lines, splitting the audience's eardrums in an effort to impress the unsophisticated watchers standing just in front of the stage who for the most part can only appreciate loud noises and pantomime shows.
O mistress mine! Where are you roaming? O, stay and hear: your true love's coming, That can sing both high and low. 40 Trip no further, pretty sweeting; Journeys end in lovers meeting, Every wise man's son doth know.
Love's night is noon.
Let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she will come.
Why what a fool was I to this drunken monster for a God. - Caliban.
I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano; A stage where every man must play a part, And mine is a sad one.
My particular grief Is of so flood-gate and o'erbearing nature That it engluts and swallows other sorrows, And it is still itself.
It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.
Wherefore art thou, Romeo?
Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won.