Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. -Much Ado read more

Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. -Much Ado about Nothing. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible read more

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice; To be imprison'd in the viewless winds, And blown with restless violence round about The pendent world. -Measure for Measure. Act iii. Sc. 1.

Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated. -A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act iii. Sc. 1.

Bless thee, Bottom! bless thee! thou art translated. -A Midsummer Night's Dream. Act iii. Sc. 1.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall. -Measure for Measure. Act ii. Sc. 1.

By my penny of observation. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act iii. Sc. 1.

By my penny of observation. -Love's Labour 's Lost. Act iii. Sc. 1.

She 's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won. -King Henry VI. Part read more

She 's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won. -King Henry VI. Part I. Act v. Sc. 3.

He doth nothing but talk of his horse. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 2.

He doth nothing but talk of his horse. -The Merchant of Venice. Act i. Sc. 2.

There 's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good read more

There 's nothing ill can dwell in such a temple: If the ill spirit have so fair a house, Good things will strive to dwell with 't. -The Tempest. Act i. Sc. 2.

Few of the university pen plaies well, they smell too much of
that writer Ovid and that writer Metamorphosis read more

Few of the university pen plaies well, they smell too much of
that writer Ovid and that writer Metamorphosis and talk too much
of Prosperpina and Jupiter. Why, here's our fellow Shakespeare
puts them all down. Aye, and Ben Jonson too. O that B.J. is a
pestilent fellow, he brought up Horace giving poets a pill, but
our fellow, Shakespeare, hath given him a purge that made him
beray his credit.