William Shakespeare

I will make a star-chamber matter of it.

What, you egg! Young fry of treachery!

Give me your hand, Terrestrial cherubim!

There's a divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will.

O, that I were a horse, and that my neigh were like a trumpet!

The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.

I am not bound to please thee with my answer.

How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child!

The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

My salad days, When I was green in judgment: cold in blood,

Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Though she be but little, she is fierce!

If music be the food of love, play on.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning.

Out, damned spot! Out, I say!

We are such stuff As dreams are made on, and our little life Is rounded with a sleep.

The course of true love never did run smooth.

All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players.

Methinks I smell an April day in January.

What, in the devil's name, is the world come to?