TWELFTH NIGHT.
Act i. Sc. 1.
If music be the food of love, play on,
Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.—
That strain again—it had a dying fall;
O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet south,
That breathes upon a bank of violets,
Stealing and giving odor.
Act i. Sc, 3.
I am sure care's an enemy to life.
Act i. Sc. 5.
'Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature's own sweet and cunning hand laid on.
Act ii. Sc. 3.
Dost thou think, because them art virtuous,
there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Act ii. Sc. 4.
She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm in the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat, like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.
Act iii. Sc. 1.
O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
Act iii. Sc. 1.
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
Act iii. Sc, 2.
Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.
Act iii. Sc. 4.
Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.