All the world's a stage.

Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.

My conscience hath a thousand several tongues, And every tongue brings in a several tale, And every tale condemns me for a villain. Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Murder, stern murder in the dir'st degree, Throng to the bar, crying all, 'Guilty!, guilty!

And why not death rather than living torment? To die is to be banish'd from myself; And Silvia is myself: banish'd from her Is self from self: a deadly banishment!

O powerful love, that in some respects makes a beast a man, in some other, a man a beast.

My language! heavens!I am the best of them that speak this speech. Were I but where 'tis spoken.

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.