No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

Pardon's the word to all.

O' thinkest thou we shall ever meet again? I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve For sweet discourses in our times to come.

QUINCE Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies

Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.

All the world is a stage and we are merely players.