Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief
That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

“I wasted time, and now doth time waste me; For now hath time made me his number…”

“Thou talk'st of nothing." "True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an…”

“We strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then are no more.”

“If it be true that good wine needs no bush,'tis true that a good play needs no …”