“Why, then the world ’s mine oyster,Which I with sword will open.”

“I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano, A stage where every man must play a part, And mine a sad one.”

“in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England:Fortune made his sword, By which the world's best garden he achiev'dAnd left it to his son imperial lord.Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd Kingof France and England did this King succeed;Whose state so many of had the managing,That they lost France and made his England bleed.”

“Why, such is love's transgression.Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prestWith more of thine: this love that thou hast shownDoth add more grief to too much of mine own.Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;Being vex'd a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears:What is it else? a madness most discreet,A choking gall and a preserving sweet.Farewell, my coz.”

“By my troth, I was seeking for a fool when I found you.Orl: He is drowned in the brook, look but in and you shall see him.Jaq: There I shall see mine own figure.Orl: Which I take to be either a fool or a cipher.”

“I have neither the scholar's melancholy, which is emulation; nor the musician's, which is fantastical; nor the courtier's, which is proud; not the soldier's which is ambitious; nor the lawyer's, which is politic; nor the lady's, which is nice; nor the lover's, which is all these: but it is a melancholy of mine own, compounded of many simples, extracted from many objects, and indeed the sundry contemplation of my travels, which, by often rumination, wraps me in a most humorous sadness.”

“I pray thee, cease thy counsel,Which falls into mine ears as profitlessAs water in a sieve: give not me counsel;Nor let no comforter delight mine earBut such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine:... for, brother, menCan counsel and speak comfort to that grief Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,Their counsel turns to passion, which beforeWould give preceptial medicine to rage,Fetter strong madness in a silken thread,Charm ache with air and agony with words.No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patienceTo those that wring under the load of sorrow,But no man's virtue nor sufficiencyTo be so moral when he shall endureThe like himself. Therefore give me no counsel:My griefs cry louder than advertisement.”