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We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy.

Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.

Sweet mercy is nobility's true badge.

The quality of mercy is not strain'd; It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest: It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.

For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th' oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely The pangs of despised love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th' unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin?

Surely, sir, There's in him stuff that puts him to these ends; For, being not propped by ancestry, whose grace Chalks successors their way, nor called upon For high feats done to th' crown, neither allied To eminent assistants, but spiderlike Out of his self-drawing web, 'a gives us note, The force of his own merit makes his way, A gift that heaven gives for him, which buys A place next to the king.

Reputation is an idle and most false imposition; oft got without merit, and lost without deserving.

What should a man do but be merry? For look you how cheerfully my mother looks, and my father died within's two hours.

Hostess, clap to the doors. Watch to-night, pray to-morrow. Gallants, lads, boys, hearts of gold, all the titles of good fellowship come to you! What, shall we be merry? Shall we have a play extempore.

And if you can be merry then, I'll say A man may weep upon his wedding day.

We never valued this poor seat of England, And therefore, living hence, did give ourself To barbarous license; as 'tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home.

So the gods bless me, When all our offices have been oppressed With riotous feeders, when our vaults have wept With drunken spilth of wine, when every room Hath blazed with lights and brayed with minstrelsy, I have retired me to a wasteful cock And set mine eyes at flow.

Berowne they call him; but a merrier man, Within the limit of becoming mirth, I never spent an hour's talk withal.

To move wild laughter in the throat of death? It cannot be; it is impossible: Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.

Be large in mirth; anon we'll drink a measure The table round.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.

For the heavens, he shows me where the bachelors sit, and there live we as merry as the day is long.

In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care.

Your silence most offends me, and to be merry best becomes you for out o' question you were born in a merry hour. No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.

I am not merry; but I do beguile The thing I am by seeming otherwise.