Doubt thou the stars are fire;Doubt that the sun doth move;Doubt truth to be a liar;But never doubt I love.

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

This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.

All the world’s a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages.

Love all, trust a few,Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemyRather in power than use; and keep thy friendUnder thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence,But never tax’d for speech.

When he shall die,Take him and cut him out in little stars,And he will make the face of heaven so fineThat all the world will be in love with nightAnd pay no worship to the garish sun.

We know what we are, but not what we may be.

It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which taken at the flood, leads on to fortune. Omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat. And we must take the current when it serves, or lose our ventures.

I bear a charmed life.

This life, which had been the tomb of his virtue and of his honour, is but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

We are such stuff as dreams are made on; and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

O God, O God, how weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world!

Now, God be praised, that to believing souls gives light in darkness, comfort in despair.

Ignorance is the curse of God; knowledge is the wing wherewith we fly to heaven.

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.

Love all, trust a few,Do wrong to none: be able for thine enemyRather in power than use; and keep thy friendUnder thy own life’s key: be check’d for silence,But never tax’d for speech.

Sweets to the sweet, farewell! I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet’s wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, And not have strewed thy grave.

Love is heavy and light, bright and dark, hot and cold, sick and healthy, asleep and awake- its everything except what it is! (Act 1, scene 1)