The appetite may sicken, and so die.
Like fell and cruel hounds

What is his name?
Whats she?

conceal me what i am

cares an enemy to life

confine yourself within the modest limits of order

hes as tall a man as any in illyria...speaks three or four languages

Already you are no stranger,
thou knowest no less but all

yet a barful strife! who're i woo, myself would be his wife

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage

You are sick of self love

every particle and utensil labelled to my will.

What is your parentage?

So quickly may one catch the plague

what is decreed must be, and be this so

my stars shine darkly over me

disguise, i see thou art a wickedness

Our frailty is the cause

It is too hard a knot for me t'untie

To bed after midnight is to go to bed betimes

My masters, are you mad?

dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

come away, come away, death

Play with my rich jewel

this fellow is wise enough to play the fool...he must observe their mood on whom he jests

I love thee so that, maugre all thy pride, nor wit nor reason can my passion hide

My desire did spur me forth

Some are born great, some achieves greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them

This is very midsummer madness

If this were played upon a stage now, i could condemn it as an improbable fiction

I take the fault on me

Nothing that is so is so

Ill never believe a madman till i see his brains

My soul disputes well with my sense

and so heavens so shine that they may fairly note this act of mine

Ill sacrifice the lamb that i do love

A thin-faced knave, a gull!

Ill be revenged on the whole pack of you

act my woes

these clothes are good enough to drink in

he's a very fool, and a prodigal

A brother's dead love, which she would keep fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance

I wear not motley in my brain.

Better a witty fool than a foolish wit

Quinapalus..."

on that vice in him will my revenge find notable cause to work

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm...wavering, contrasts to 'they lack retention

If I could make that resemble something in me

overweening

In delay there lies no plenty; Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty...