Twelfth Night

Be not afraid of greatness. Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and others have greatness thrust upon them.

If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die.

Better a witty fool, than a foolish wit.

If music be the food of love, play on.

a young woman in love always looks like patience on a monument smiling at grief

Love sought is good, but giv'n unsought is better.

I say there is no darkness but ignorance.

O time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.

Olivia: How does he love me? Viola: With adoration, with fertile tears, With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire.

She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm 'i th' bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pinned in thought; and, with a green and yellow melancholy, she sat like Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed our shows are more than will; for we still prove much in our vows but little in our love.

I have unclasp'd to thee the book even of my secret soul.

In nature there's no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents.

Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.

This fellow is wise enough to play the fool; And to do that well craves a kind of wit: He must observe their mood on whom he jests, The quality of persons, and the time, And, like the haggard, check at every feather That comes before his eye. This is a practise As full of labour as a wise man's art For folly that he wisely shows is fit; But wise men, folly-fall'n, quite taint their wit.

Come away, come away, Death, And in sad cypress let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with yew, O prepare it! My part of death no one so true did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, On my black coffin let there be strewn: Not a friend, not a friend greet My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me O where Sad true lover never find my grave, to weep there!

But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds [vows] disgraced them." Viola: "Thy reason, man?" Feste: "Troth [Truthfully], sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loathe to prove reason with them.

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

Antonio: Will you stay no longer? nor will you not that I go with you? Sebastian: By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love to lay any of them on you.

Alas, the frailty is to blame, not we For such as we are made of, such we be

For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.

Where lies your text? Viola: In Orsino's bosom. Olivia: In his bosom! In what chapter of his bosom? Viola: To answer by the method, in the first of his heart.