The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars,But in ourselves, that we are underlings.

I have never thought that the man of Stratford-on-Avon wrote the plays of Shakespeare.

That they will find each other during the play, once more, in the words of Shakespeare.

There’s no way to stand up gracefully when your pants are down around your ankles.

You tell me the dead are coming through a crack in my barn, but I shouldn’t worry?

Alack, when once our grace we have forgot,Nothing goes right; we would and we would not.

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyesWould, with themselves, shut up my thoughts...

They are the books, the arts, the academes,That show, contain and nourish all the world.

I wrote you this poem because i was afraid/ To come out and tell you i want to get laid.

Ah youth, youth! That's what happens when you go steeping your soul into Shakespeare

The life of Shakespeare is a fine mystery and I tremble every day lest something turn up.

It is difficult to restrain admirers of Shakespeare once they have begun to speak of him.

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.

What's in a name, anyway? That which we call a nose by any other name would still smell.

Books are Lighthouses erected in the sea of time." Prospero in Shakespeare's The Tempest