To be or not to be, that is the question
All the word's a stage and all the men and women merely players.
Now is the winter of our discontent.
Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.
If you prick us, do we not bleed? if you tickle us, do we not laugh?
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears.
Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.
We are such stuff as dreams are made on, rounded with a little sleep.
I don't know which plays any of these are from