COMEDIES

All's Well That Ends WellAs You Like ItComedy of ErrorsLove's Labour's LostMeasure
for MeasureMerchant of VeniceMerry Wives of WindsorMidsummer Night's DreamMuch Ado
about NothingTaming of the Shrew
TempestTw
elfth NightTw
o Gentlemen of VeronaWinter's
Tale
HISTORIES
CymbelineHenry IV, Part IHenry IV, Part IIHenry VHenry VI, Part IHenry VI, Part II
Henry VI, Part IIIHenry VIIIKing JohnPericlesRichard IIRichard III
TRAGEDIES
Antony and CleopatraCoriolanusHamletJulius CaesarKing LearMacbethOthelloRomeo and
JulietTimon of AthensTitus AndronicusTroilus and Cressida

star-crossed lovers
Villian
Melancholy
Courage
Mischief

Padua
Verona
Athens
Rome
Venice
England
Scotland
Denmark

Puck
Falstaff
Benedick
Ophelia
Lady Macbeth
Viola
Beatrice
Titania
Hippolyta
Iago
Shylock
Prospero
Don John
Edmund
Claudius
Tamora
Gertrude
Polonius
Laertes
Horatio
Fortinbras
Marcus Brutus
Cassius
Portia
Desdemona
Caius
Montagues
Capulets
Chorus
Claudio
Clow
n
Emilia
Fleance
Friar Laurence
Gravedigger
Guildenstern
Rozencrantz
Helena
Imogen
Leontes
Macduff
Mercutio
Oberon
Orlando
Perdita
Petruchio
Three Witches

Exit, pursued by a bear

Laurence Olivier
Dame Peggy Ashcroft
John Barrymore
Sarah Bernhardt
Claire Bloom
Edw
in Booth
Kenneth Branagh
Richard Burton
Mrs. Patrick Campbell
Glenn Close
Judi Dench
Ralph Fiennes
David Garrick
Mel Gibson
Sir John Gielgud
Ethan Haw
ke
Derek Jacobi
Edmund Kean
Fanny Kemble
Kevin Kline
Vivien Leigh
Ian McKellen
Sir Laurence Olivier
Michael Redgrave
Vanessa Redgrave
Corin Redgrave
Kenneth Branagh
Lynn Redgrave
Keanu Reeves
Diana Rigg
Paul Robeson
Paul Scofield
Emma Thompson
Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree
Orson Welles
Ian McKellan
Patrick Stew
art

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough w
inds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short
a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion
dimmed, And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing
course untrimmed: But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of
that fair thou ow
'st, Nor shall death brag thou w
ander'st in his shade, When in
eternal lines to time thou grow
'st, So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So
long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

What's he that w
ishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If w
e are mark'd to die, w
e are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,
The few
er men, the greater share of honour.
God's w
ill! I pray thee, w
ish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I w
ho doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments w
ear;
Such outw
ard things dw
ell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, w
ish not a man from England.
God's peace! I w
ould not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks w
ould share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not w
ish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he w
hich hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crow
ns for convoy put into his purse;
We w
ould not die in that man's company
That fears his fellow
ship to die w
ith us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe w
hen this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow
 is Saint Crispian.'
Then w
ill he strip his sleeve and show
 his scars,
And say 'These w
ounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, w
ith advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household w
ords-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warw
ick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flow
ing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the w
orld,
But w
e in it shall be remembered-
We few
, w
e happy few
, w
e band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood w
ith me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now
-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they w
ere not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap w
hiles any speaks
That fought w
ith us upon Saint Crispin's day.
She should have died hereafter; There w
ould have been a time for such a w
ord.
Tomorrow
, and tomorrow
, and tomorrow
, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The w
ay to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a w
alking shadow
, a poor
player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage And then is heard no more. It is a
tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury Signifying nothing.

Blow
, w
inds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow
! You cataracts and hurricanoes,
spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drow
n’d the cocks! You sulph’rous and
thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my
w
hite head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ th’
w
orld, Crack Nature’s moulds, all germains spill at once, That makes ingrateful
man! Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, w
ind, thunder, fire
are my daughters. I tax not you, you elements, w
ith unkindness. I never gave you
kingdom, call’d you children, You ow
e me no subscription. Then let fall Your
horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, w
eak, and despis’d old
man. But yet I call you servile ministers, That w
ill w
ith tw
o pernicious daughters
join Your high-engender’d battles ‘gainst a head So old and w
hite as this! O! O!
‘tis foul!