William Shakespeare

A little more than kin and less than kind.

To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them.

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio - a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath bore me on his back a thousand times, and now how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung these lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment that were wont to set the table on a roar?

I have of late, but wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory; this most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire! Why, it appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapours. What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! How infinite in faculties! In form and moving, how express and admirable! In action how like an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! The beauty of the world! The paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

For there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.

Frailty, thy name is woman!

But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

O, from this time forth my thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth!

I lov'd Ophelia. Forty thousand brothers could not with all their quantity of love make up my sum.

The play's the thing wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king.

If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all.

I think it be thine indeed, for thou liest in't.

Thou dost lie in't to be in't, and say 'tis thine. 'Tis for the dead not for the quick, therefore thou liest.

I would not hear your enemy say so, nor shall you do my ear thine violence to make it truster of your own report against yourself. I know you are no truant.

So gentlemen, with all my love I do commend me to you, and what so poor a man as Hamlet is may do to express his love and friending to you, God willing, shall not lack. Let us go in together, and still your fingers on your lips, I pray. The time is out of joint. O cursed spite that ever I was born to set it right.

'Tis now the very witching time of night, when church yards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.

If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart, absent thee from felicity awhile and in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain to tell my story.

I myself am indifferent honest, yet I could accuse me of such things that it were better my mother had not borne me.

You cannot call it love! At your age the heyday in the blood is tame!

Now, until the break of day / Through this house each fairy stray. / To the best bride-bed will we, / Which by us shall blessed be; / So shall all the couples three / Ever true in loving be; / And the owner of it blest / Ever shall in safety rest. / Trip awa; make no stay; / Meet me all by break of day.

This is thy negligence. Still, still, still! Thou mistakest. Or else…

Committ'st thy knaveries willfully, hmm?

Thou see'st these lovers seek a place to fight. Hie therefore, Robin, overcast the night, the starry welkin cover thou anon with drooping fog as black as Acheron and lead these testy rivals so astray that one not come within the other's way, then… crush this herb into Lysander's…

*Lysander's* eye. Whiles I in this affair do thee employ, I'll to my queen... and beg her Indian boy. And then I will her charmed eye release from monster's view... and all things shall be peace.

I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme.

I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call.

But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

I guess in this society, being male and an asshole makes you worthy of our time.

I don't like to do what people expect. Why should I live up to other people's expectations instead of my own?

You can't just buy me a guitar every time you screw up, you know?

And don't just think you can - !

Don't, for one minute, think that you had any effect whatsoever on my panties.

Other than my upchuck reflex, nothing.

Romantic? Hemingway? He was an abusive, alcoholic misogynist who squandered half of his life hanging around Picasso trying to nail his leftovers.

My mission in life. But, obviously I struck your fancy so you see it worked. The world makes sense again.

Bogey's party is just a lame excuse for all the idiots at our school to drink beer and rub up against each other in hopes of distracting themselves from the pathetic emptiness of their meaningless...

You don't always have to be who they want you to be, you know?

Well, now that you've seen "the plan", I'm gonna go and show "the plan" to someone else.

Can you even imagine? Who the hell would go to that antiquated mating-ritual?

Do you really wanna get all dressed up, so some Drakkar Noir-wearing dexter with a boner can feel you up while you're forced to listen to a band that, by definition, blows?

Have you seen the unwashed miscreants that go to that school?

You're not as vile as I thought you were.

You're looking at this from entirely the wrong perspective. We're making a statement.

I'm sorry. Looks like you'll just have to miss out on the witty repartee of Joey "eat me" Donner.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, 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 is 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.

Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell that summons thee to Heaven or to Hell.

O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife. Thou knowest that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives. And in his royalty of nature reigns that which would be feared. 'Tis much he dares. And, to that dauntless temper of his mind, he hath the wisdom to guide his valor to act in safety. There's none but he whose being I do fear.

Out, out, brief candle. Life is 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.

I'll fight with none but thee, for I do hate thee.

O, a kiss Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!

A name unmusical to the Volscians' ears, and harsh in sound to thine.

My name is Caius Martius, who hath done to thee particularly, and to all the Volsces, great hurt and mischief. Thereto witness my surname... Coriolanus. Only that name remains. The cruelty and envy of the people who have all forsook me, hath devoured the rest and suffered me by the voice of slaves, be whooped out of Rome. Now this extremity hath brought me to thy hearth. Not out of hope, mistake me not to save my life. For if I had feared death, of all men in the world I would have avoided thee. But, in mere spite, to be full quit of those my banishers, stand I before thee here. I will fight against my cankered country with the spleen of all the under fiends. But if thou dares not this, then I present my throat to thee and to thy ancient malice. Which not to cut would show thee but a fool, since I have ever followed thee with hate, and cannot live but to thy shame, unless it be to do thee service.

He that will give good words to thee will flatter beneath abhorring. What would you have, you curs that like nor peace nor war? The one affrights you, the other makes you proud. He that trusts to you where he should find you lions, finds you hares; where foxes, geese. Who deserves greatness, deserves your hate.

By Jove himself, it makes the consuls base, and my soul aches to know when two authorities are up, neither supreme, how soon confusion may enter twixt the gap of both and take the one by the other. Thus we debase the nature of our seats and make the rabble call our cares fears, which will, in time, break open the locks of the senate, and bring in the crows to peck the eagles!

I am returned your soldier, no more infected with my country's love than when I parted hence, but still subsisting under your great command. We have made peace with no less honor to the Volscians than shame to the Romans.

Measureless liar, thou has made my heart too great for what contains it. "Boy"? O slave. Cut me to pieces, Volsces! Men and lads, stain all your edges on me! "Boy"? If you have writ your annals true, 'tis there that, like an eagle in a dovecote, I fluttered your Volscians in Corioles. Alone I did it. "Boy".

Think upon me? Hang 'em. I would they would forget me.Custom calls me to it. What custom wills, in all things should we do it. What must I say? "Look, sir, my wounds. I got them in my country's service."