Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity.

Conceal me what I am, and be my aid for such disguise as haply shall become the form of my intent.

Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.

Enjoy'd no sooner but despised straight, Past reason hunted, and no sooner had Past reason hated

Here comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With his mouth full of news. Celia: Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. Rosalind: Then shall we be news-crammed. Celia: All the better; we shall be the more marketable.

True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy.

Swift as shadow, short as any dream