To be or not to be, that is the question.
O, what men dare do!
Two gentleman of Verona
Measure for measure
and in a Midsummer’s Night’s Dream
And like the baseless fabric of this vision
imagined there would be much ado about nothing.
Mum’s the word!
But this denoted a foregone conclusion.
Wherefore are these things hid?
Oft expectation fails, and most oft there
Where most it promises.
The plan would be a winter’s tale.
But as you like it
or as not
Damn’d be him that first cries, ‘hold enough’!
These tedious old fools!
The tempest doth make delay.
Will the work done be love’s labour lost?
Will the storm nay be calmed?
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever.
Would they want that chinks be earned
Gold? Yellow, glittering, precious gold?
No, Gods, I am no idle votarist!
All gold and silver rather turn to dirt!
As ’tis no better reckon’d, but of those
who have want.
“Shylock, we would have moneys,” you say so
the pound of flesh which I demand of him
is dearly bought. ‘Tis mine.
What might be toward, that this sweaty haste
Doth make the night joint-laborer with the day:
Who is’t that can inform me?
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!
Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?
The letter was not nice but full of charge,
Of dear import, and the neglecting it
May do much danger!
Ignorance is the curse of God;
knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.
No legacy is so rich as honesty.
For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout.
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.
And exempt from public haunt,
finds tongues in trees.
You are thought here to the most senseless and fit man for the job.
Alas poor Yorrick
a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.
Conscience doth make cowards of us all.
And enterprises of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action.
What’s more to do,
Which would be planted newly with the time,
How poor are they that have not patience!
Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong.
Don’t trust the person who has broken faith once?
The quality of mercy is not strain’d
I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea
If we should fail –
But screw your courage to the sticking-place,
And we’ll not fail.
All’s well if all ends well.
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
Now this overdone or come tardy off,
though it make the unskillful laugh,
cannot but make the judicious grieve,
the censure of the which one must in your allowance
o’erweigh a whole theatre of others.
What’s done can’t be undone.
Forget, forgive, conclude, and be agreed: Our doctors say this is no time to bleed.
Words taken in tribute, from the works of Shakespeare
(23 April 1564 – 23 April 1616).
All his words, not necessarily in the right order.
Celebrated on the date of the 450th anniversary of his birth, on Metro considered, what if Shakespeare had Twitter?