What are you looking for?

The raven himself is hoarse

Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law

I left no ring with her; what means this lady?

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,

How happy some o'er other some can be!

All the world's a stage,

Nothing will induce me to part with Bunbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know Bunbury.

I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I was papa's doll-child. And the children, in their turn, have been my dolls.

I am a seagull... No, that's not it. I am an actress.

But I do think it is their husbands' faults

It is not the fashion to see the lady the epilogue; but it is no more unhandsome than to see the lord the prologue.

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

If we shadows have offended,

Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?

The quality of mercy is not strain’d,

And even for that do I love you the more.

To be, or not to be, that is the question:

Now is the winter of our discontent

Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,

Ah, Faustus,

We live, as I hope you know, Mr. Worthing, in an age of ideals. The fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits, I am told.

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

Thus do I ever make my fool my purse;

My father had a daughter loved a man,

Mad world! mad kings! mad composition!

But I keep myself in hand, as the saying is, and always dress and have my hair done comme il faut. Do I ever permit myself to go out even into the garden in a dressing-gown, or without my hair being done?

This first, of gold, who this inscription bears,

Here's neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i' the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor.

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 rises at it.