I use The Complete Works of Shakespeare Fifth Edition as Edited by David Bevington. This is why the numbers of the lines don't always match the ones online. They should still be useful in finding the lines if you want to look them up.
Coriolanus: Oh, mother, mother!
What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope,
The gods look down, and this unnatural scene
They laugh at. Oh my mother, mother! Oh!
You have won a happy victory to Rome;
But for your son — believe it, oh, believe it! —
Most dangerously you have with him prevailed,
If not most mortal to him. But let it come.
Queen: There is a willow grows askant the brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
Therewith fantastic garlands did she make
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds did give a grosser name,
But our cold mads do dead men’s fingers call them.
There on their pendent boughs her crownet weeds
Clamb’ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide,
And mermaidlike awhile they bore her up,
Which time she chanted snatches of old lauds,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and endues
Unto that element. But long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
Aufidius: Do they still fly to th’ Roman?
Lieutenant: I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but
Your soldiers use him as the grace ‘fore meat,
They talk at table, and their thanks at end;
And you are darkened in this action, sir,
Even by your own.
Aufidius: I cannot help it now,
Unless by using means I lame the foot
Of our design. He bears himself more proudlier,
Even than my person, than I thought he would
When first I did embrace him. Yet his nature
In that’s no changeling, and I must excuse
What cannot be amended.
Orsino: If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken and so die.
Feste [sings]:
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypress let me be laid.
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
Oh prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corpse, where my bones shall be thrown.
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, oh, where
Sad true lover never find my grave,
To weep there!
Brutus: There’s no more to be said, but he is banished
As enemy to the people and his country.
It shall be so.
All Plebians: It shall be so, it shall be so!
Coriolanus: You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate
As reek o’th’ rotten fens, whose loves I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do corrupt my air, I banish you!
And here remain with your uncertainty!
Let every feeble rumor shake your hearts!
Your enemies, with nodding of their plumes,
Fan you into despaire! Have the power still
To banish your defenders, till at length
Your ignorance — which finds not till it feels,
Making but reservation of yourselves,
Still your own foes — deliver you
As most abated captives to some nation
That won you without blows! Despising
For you the city, thus I turn my back.
There is a world elsewhere.
Duchess of York: Either thou wilt die, by God’s just ordinance,
Ere from this war thou turn a conqueror,
Or I with grief and extreme age shall perish
And never look upon thy face again.
Therefore take with thee my most heavy curse;
Which, in the day of battle, tire thee more
Than all the complete armour that thou wear’st!
My prayers on the adverse party fight;
And there the little souls of Edward’s children
Whisper the spirits of thine enemies
And promise them success and victory.
Bloody thou art, bloody will be thy end;
Shame serves thy life and doth thy death attend.
Claudio: O Hero, what a Hero hadst thou been
If half thy outward graces had been placed
About thy thoughts and counsels of thy heart!
But fare thee well, most foul, most fair! Farewell,
Thou pure impiety and impious purity!
For thee I’ll lock up all the gates of love,
And on my eyelids shall conjecture hang,
To turn all beauty into thoughts of harm,
And never shall it more be gracious.
First Witch: A sailor’s wife had chestnuts in her lap,
And munched, and munched, and munched. “Give me,” quoth I.
“Aroint thee, witch!” the rump-fed runnion cries.
Her husband’s to Aleppo gone, master o’th’ Tiger;
But in a sieve I’ll thither sail,
And like a rat without a tail
I’ll do, I’ll do, and I’ll do.
Hamlet: To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
