Malvolio: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.

Duke Orsino of Illyria: If music be the food of love, play on.

Feste: Good madonna, why mournest thou?

Olivia: Good fool, for my brother's death.

Feste: I think his soul is in hell, madonna.

Olivia: I know his soul is in heaven, fool.

Feste: The more fool, madonna, to mourn for your brother's soul being in heaven.

Duke Orsino: If this be so, as yet the glass seems true, I shall have share in this most happy wreck.

Duke Orsino: [to Viola/Cesario]

Duke Orsino: Boy, thou hast said to me a thousand times thou never shouldst love woman like to me.

Viola: And all those sayings will I overswear.

Duke Orsino: Give me thy hand. Your master quits you; and for your service done him, so much against the mettle of your sex, here is my hand. You shall from this time be your master's mistress.

Orsino: Make no compare Between that love a woman can bear me And that I owe Olivia.

Cesario: Ay, but I know...

Cesario: What dost thou know?

Cesario: Too well what love women to men may owe. In faith, they are as true of heart as we. My father had a daughter lov'd a man As it might be perhaps, were I a woman, I should your lordship.

Orsino: And what's her history?

Cesario: A blank, my lord. She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud, Feed on her damask cheek. She pin'd in thought; And, with a green and yellow melancholy, She sat like Patience on a monument, Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? We men may say more, swear more; but indeed Our shows are more than will; for still we prove Much in our vows but little in our love.

Orsino: But died thy sister of her love, my boy?

Cesario: I am all the daughters of my father's house, And all the brothers too-and yet I know not.

Cesario: Dost thou live by thy music, friend?

Feste: No, sir, I live by the church.

Cesario: Art thou a churchman?

Feste: No such matter, sir: I do live by the church; for I do live at my house, and my house doth stand by the church.

Maria: But that he have the gift of a coward he would quickly have the gift of a grave.

Cesario: I left no ring with her! What means this lady? Fortune forbid my outside have not charm'd her! She made good view of me, indeed so much that methought her eyes had lost her tongue, for she did speak in starts, distractedly. I am the man!

Orsino: There's for thy pains.

Feste: No pains, sir: I take pleasure in singing, sir.

Orsino: I'll pay thy pleasure then.

Feste: Truly, sir, and pleasure will be paid, one time or another.

Olivia: Why, this is very midsummer's madness.

Sir Toby Belch: Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

Malvolio: My masters, are you mad? Have ye no wit, manners, nor honesty, but to gabble like tinkers at this time of night? Do ye make an alehouse of my lady's house? Is there no respect of place, persons, nor time in you?

Maria: Go shake your ears!

Sir Andrew: I was adored once too.

Olivia: I heard you were saucy at my gates, and allowed your approach rather to wonder at you than to hear you.

Malvolio: I'll be revenged on the whole pack of you.

Feste: And thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges.

Olivia: Alas, poor fool, how have they baffled thee!

Maria: By my troth, Sir Toby, you must come in earlier o' nights. That quaffing and drinking will undo you: I heard my lady talk of it yesterday; and of a foolish knight that you brought here to be her wooer.

Sir Toby Belch: Who, Sir Andrew Aguecheek?

Maria: Ay, he.

Sir Toby Belch: He's as tall a man as any's in Illyria.

Maria: What's that to the purpose?

Malvolio: Were not you even now with the Countess Olivia?

Cesario: Even now, sir; on a moderate pace I have since arrived but hither.

Malvolio: She returns this ring to you, sir: you might have saved me my pains, to have taken it away yourself. She adds, moreover, that you should put your lord into a desperate assurance she will none of him. Receive it so.

Cesario: She took the ring of me? I'll none of it.

Malvolio: Come, sir, you peevishly threw it to her; and her will is, it should be so returned: if it be worth stooping for, there it lies in your eye; if not, be it his that finds it.

Sebastian: I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else: Thou know'st not me.

Feste: Vent my folly! Tell me what I shall vent to my lady: shall I vent to her that thou art coming?