Our revels now are ended. These our actors, As I foretold you, were all spirits and Are melted into air, into thin air: And, like the baseless fabric of this vision, The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces, The solemn temples, the great globe itself, Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.

Passion makes the will lord of the reason.

Nothing is so common as the wish to be remarkable.(attributed to)

O, let my books be then the eloquence and dumb presages of my speaking breast.

Olivia: What's a drunken man like, fool? Feste: Like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman: one draught above heat makes him a fool; the second mads him; and a third drowns him.

In nature there's no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind.