All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
To be, or not to be: that is the question.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
Et tu, Brute?
We are such stuff as dreams are made on.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
This above all: to thine own self be true.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
If music be the food of love, play on.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Cowards die many times before their deaths.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
To thine own self be true.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
What’s done is done.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
For where thou art, there is the world itself, with every several pleasure in the world.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
The better part of valor is discretion.
All that glitters is not gold.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene.
The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.
We are each in our own prisons, and often we love our cells.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.
If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?
How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, but love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Speak low, if you speak love.
All’s well that ends well.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
To be, or not to be: that is the question.
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
Et tu, Brute?
We are such stuff as dreams are made on.
What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
This above all: to thine own self be true.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.
If music be the food of love, play on.
The lady doth protest too much, methinks.
Cowards die many times before their deaths.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Brevity is the soul of wit.
To thine own self be true.
The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.
Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.
What’s done is done.
There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
For where thou art, there is the world itself, with every several pleasure in the world.
We know what we are, but know not what we may be.
The better part of valor is discretion.
All that glitters is not gold.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs.
The love of heaven makes one heavenly.
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene.
The miserable have no other medicine but only hope.
We are each in our own prisons, and often we love our cells.
Hell is empty and all the devils are here.
Wisely and slow. They stumble that run fast.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.
The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players.
Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have Immortal longings in me.
If you prick us, do we not bleed? If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?
How far that little candle throws his beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.
Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books, but love from love, toward school with heavy looks.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.
Speak low, if you speak love.
All’s well that ends well.
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