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Lay not that flattering unction to your soul.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

I must be cruel, only to be kind.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

For 't is the sport, to have the engineer
Hoist with his own petar.

Act iii. Sc. 4.

Diseases desperate grown,
By desperate appliance are relieved,
Or not at all.

Act iv. Sc. 3.

Sure, He that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before, and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason,
To fust in us unused.

Act iv. Sc. 4.

Greatly to find quarrel in a straw, When honour's at the stake.

Act iv. Sc. 4.

So full of artless jealousy is guilt,
It spills itself in fearing to be spilt.

Act iv. Sc. 5.

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

Act iv. Sc. 5.

When sorrows come, they come not single spies,
But in battalions !

Activ. Sc. 5.

There's such divinity doth hedge a king,
That treason can but peep to what it would.

Aci iv. Sc. 5.

There's rosemary, that 's for remembrance ; and there is pansies, that's for thoughts. Act iv. Sc. 5.

A very riband in the cap of youth.

Act iv. Sc. 7.

Cudgel thy brains no more about it.

Act v. Sc. I.

One, that was a woman, sir, but rest her soul, she's dead.

Act v. Sc. 1.

How absolute the knave is! we must speak by the card or equivocation will undo us.

Act v. Sc. I.

The age is grown so picked, that the toe of the peasant comes so near the heel of the courtier, he galls his kibe.

Act v. Sc. 1.

Alas, poor Yorick ! I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest ; of most excellent fancy.

Act v. Sc. I.

Where be your gibes now? your gambols ? your songs ? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar ?

Act v. Sc. 1.

To what base uses we may return, Horatio !

Act v. Sc. I.

Imperial Cæsar, dead, and turned to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away. Act v. Sc. 1.

Sweets to the sweet.

Act v. Sc. I.

For, though I am not splenetive and rash,
Yet have I in me something dangerous. Act v. Sc. 1.

Let Hercules himself do what he may,
The cat will mew, and dog will have his day.

Act v. Sc. 1.

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

Act v. Sc. 2.

In a towering passion.

Act v. Sc. 2.

The phrase would be more german to the matter, if we could carry a cannon by our sides.

Act v. Sc. 2.

There is a special providence in the fall of a sparrow.

Act v. Sc. 2.

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That never set a squadron in the field,
Nor the division of a battle knows.

Act i. Sc. 1.

Whip me such honest knaves.

Act i. Sc. 1.

But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve
For daws to peck at.

Act i. Sc. 1.

The wealthy curled darlings of our nation.

Acti. Sc. 2.

Most potent, grave, and reverend seigniors.

Act i. Sc. 3.

The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent, no more.

Rude am I in my speech.

Act i. Sc. 3.

In the tented field.

Act i. Sc. 3.

I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver
Of my whole course of love.

Act i. Sc. 3.

The battles, sieges, fortunes, That I have passed.

Act i. Sc. 3.

Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood and field,
Of hair-breadth 'scapes i’ the imminent deadly breach.

Act i. Sc. 3.

Antres vast, and deserts idle.

Act i. Sc. 3.

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads
Do grow beneath their shoulders. These things to

hear,* Would Desdemona seriously incline. Act i. Sc. 3.

And often did beguile her of her tears.

Act i. Sc. 3.

My story being done, She gave me for my pains a world of sighs ;

The folios have, this to hear.

She swore, In faith, 't was strange, ’t was passing

strange; ’T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful : She wished she had not heard it; yet she wished That Heaven had made her such a man. Act i. Sc. 3.

Upon this hint I spake : She loved me for the dangers I had passed, And I loved her that she did pity them. Act i. Sc. 3.

I do perceive here a divided duty.

Act i. Sc. 3.

The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief.

Act i. Sc. 3.

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Iago. To suckle fools, and chronicle small beer.
Des. O most lame and impotent conclusion !

Act ü. Sc. I. Egregiously an ass.

Act ii. Sc. 1.

Potations pottle deep.

Act ii. Sc. 3.

King Stephen was a worthy peer,

His breeches cost him but a crown ; He held them sixpence all too dear,

With that he called the tailor-lown.* Act ii. Sc. 3.

* Though these lines are from an old ballad given in Percy they are much altered by Shakspere, and it is his version we sing in the nursery.

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