The eye of man hath not heard, the ear of man hath not seen, man's hand is not able to taste, his tongue to conceive, nor his heart to report, what my dream was.
Though she be but little, she is fierce!
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumber'd here While these visions did appear.
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.
All's well that ends well.
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, love can transpose to form and dignity
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.
Are you sure/That we are awake? It seems to me/That yet we sleep, we dream
The course of true love never did run smooth.
If we shadows have offended, Think but this, and all is mended, That you have but slumbered here While these visions did appear. And this weak and idle theme, No more yielding but a dream, Gentles, do not reprehend: If you pardon, we will mend: And, as I am an honest Puck, If we have unearned luck Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue, We will make amends ere long; Else the Puck a liar call; So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, And Robin shall restore amends.
All is well that ends well
I have had a most rare vision. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to say what dream it was.
O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd! She was a vixen when she went to school; And though she be but little, she is fierce.
But earthlier happy is the rose distill'd Than that which withering on the virgin thorn Grows, lives, and dies in single blessedness.
Lovers and madmen have such seething brains Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend More than cool reason ever comprehends.
A lion among ladies is a most dreadful thing.
To you your father should be as a god.
A tragedy is a tragedy, and at the bottom, all tragedies are stupid. Give me a choice and I'll take A Midsummer Night's Dream over Hamlet every time. Any fool with steady hands and a working set of lungs can build up a house of cards and then blow it down, but it takes a genius to make people laugh.
If you expect me to believe that a lawyer wrote A Midsummer Night's Dream, I must be dafter than I look.
Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so; And, being done, thus Wall away doth go.
I'd love to play Puck in 'A Midsummer Night's Dream.'
We will meet; and there we may rehearse most obscenely and courageously.
Each religion is a brave guess at the authorship of Hamlet. Yet, as far as the play goes, does it make any difference whether Shakespeare or Bacon wrote it? Would it make any difference to the actors if their parts happened out of nothingness, if they found themselves acting on the stage because of some gross and unpardonable accident? Would it make any difference if the playwright gave them the lines or whether they composed them themselves, so long as the lines were properly spoken? Would it make any difference to the characters if 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' was really a dream?
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