William Shakespeare

What's in a name? that which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet.

But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.

The man that hath no music in himself Nor is no moved with concord of sweet sounds Is fit for treasons stratagems and spoils.

For murder though it have no tongue will speak With most miraculous organ.

Murder most foul as in the best it is But this most foul strange and unnatural.

The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light.

As full of spirit as the month of May.

The ides of March are come.

Tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Neither a borrower nor a lender be for loan oft loses both itself and friend and borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.

Tis mightiest in the mightiest it becomes The throned monarch better than his crown His sceptre shows the force of temporal power The attribute to awe and majesty Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings But mercy is above this sceptred sway It is enthroned in the hearts of kings It is an attribute to God himself And earthly power doth then show likest God's When mercy seasons justice.

The worst is not sSo long as we can say "This is the worst."

Goodnight! Goodnight! Parting is such sweet sorrow That I shall say goodnight 'til it be morrow.

Men are April when they woo December when they wed maids are May when they are maids but the sky changes when they are wives.

Ay me! for aught that I ever could read Could ever hear by tale or history The course of true love never did run smooth.

His life was gentle and the elements So mix'd in him that Nature might stand up And say to all the world This was a man!

All the world's a stage,And all the men and women merely players;They have their exits and their entrances,And one man in his time plays many parts,His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchelAnd shining morning face, creeping like snailUnwillingly to school. And then the lover,Sighing like furnace, with a woeful balladMade to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,Seeking the bubble reputationEven in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,In fair round belly with good capon lined,With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,Full of wise saws and modern instances;And so he plays his part. The sixth age shiftsInto the lean and slippered pantaloon,With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,Turning again toward childish treble, pipesAnd whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,That ends this strange eventful history,Is second childishness and mere oblivion,Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.