“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.”

Always the wrong person gives you the right lesson in life.”

I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends.

So wise so young, they say, do never live long.

Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.

There’s a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied, And vice sometime by action dignified.

Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.

Thus I die. Thus, thus, thus. Now I am dead, Now I am fled, My soul is in the sky. Tongue, lose thy light. Moon take thy flight. Now die, die, die, die.

Conscience doth make cowards of us all.

Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.

You cannot, sir, take from me any thing that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

I have set my life upon a cast, And I will stand the hazard of the die.

“All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.”

“God shall be my hope, my stay, my guide and lantern to my feet.”

“The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones.”

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks.”

These violent delights have violent ends And in their triump die, like fire and powder Which, as they kiss, consume.

There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the floud, leads on to fortune ommitted, all the voyage of their lives are bound in shallows and in miseries.

God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another.

Like madness is the glory of life.

Out, out, brief candle! Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

“And this, our life, exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.”