Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.

As full of spirit as the month of May, and as gorgeous as the sun in Midsummer.

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? your gambols? your songs? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar? Not one now, to mock your own grinning? quite chap-fallen?

She lov'd me for the dangers I had pass'd, And I lov'd her that she did pity them

With this special observance, that you o'erstep not the modesty of nature. for anything so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature.

Were't not for laughing, I should pity him.