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.

I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.

Ambition, the soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss, than gain which darkens him.

O sleep! O gentle sleep! Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down And steep my senses in forgetfulness? Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs, Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee, And hush'd with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber, Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great, Under the canopies of costly state, And lull'd with sound of sweetest melody?

Too nice, and yet too true!

The lady doth protest too much, methinks.

The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants.