Let fame, that all hunt after in their lives, 
Live registered upon our brazen tombs, 
And then grace us in the disgrace of death 
When, spite of cormorant devouring time,
Th'endeavour of this present breath may buy
That honour which shall bate his scythe's keen edge
And make us heirs of all eternity.  
(King, Act 1 Scene 1)

Our court shall be a little academe, 
Still and contemplative in living art.  
(King, Act 1 Scene 1)

As painfully to pore upon a book 
To seek the light of truth, while truth the while 
Doth falsely blind the eyesight of his look.  
(Berowne, Act 1 Scene 1)

Assist me, some extemporal god of rhyme, for I am sure I shall turn sonnet. Devise, wit: write, pen, for I am for whole volumes in folio.  
(Armado, Act 1 Scene 2)

Beauty is bought by judgement of the eye, 
Not uttered by base sale of chapmen's tongues  
(Princess of France, Act 2 Scene 1) 

Your wit’s too hot, it speeds too fast, ‘twill tire.   
(Berowne, Act 2 Scene 1) 

O me, with what strict patience have I sat,
To see a king transformed to a gnat! 
To see great Hercules whipping a gig, 
And profound Solomon tuning a jig,
And Nestor play at push-pin with the boys,
And critic Timon laugh at idle toys.   
(Berowne, Act 4 Scene 3)

From women's eyes this doctrine I derive:
They are the ground, the books, the academes
From whence doth spring the true Promethean fire.  
(Berowne, Act 4 Scene 3)

They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.  
(Moth, Act 5 Scene 1)