Rosalind. I will be your Rosalind in a more coming-on disposition; and ask me what you will, I will grant it. Orlando. Then love me, Rosalind. Rosalind. Yes, faith, will I, Fridays and Saturdays and all.
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. At first the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, a soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honour, sudden, and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side, His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big, manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange, eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.
If it be true that good wine needs no bush, 'tis true that a good play needs no epilogue.
He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-browed night. Give me my Romeo, and when I shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night, And pay no worship to the garish sun.
A terrible childbed hast thou had, my dear; No light, no fire: th' unfriendly elements Forgot thee utterly.
Now I want Spirits to enforce, art to enchant, And my ending is despair, Unless I be relieved by prayer, Which pierces so that it assaults Mercy itself, and frees all faults.
If thou survive my well-contented day When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover, And shalt by fortune once more re-survey These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover; Compare them with the bettering of the time, And though they be outstripped by every pen, Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme Exceeded by the height of happier men. Oh, then vouchsafe me but this loving thought— \'Had my friend's Muse grown with this growing age, A dearer birth than this his love had brought, To march in ranks of better equipage: But since he died, and poets better prove, Theirs for their style I'll read, his for his love.'
He capers, he dances, he has eyes of youth; he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April and May.
This will last out a night in Russia When nights are longest there.