Won't you come into the garden? I would like my roses to see you.
Do thou snatch treasures from my lips, and I'll take kingdoms back from thine.
Wit loses its point when dipped in malice.
To smile at the jest which plants a thorn in another's breast is to become a principal in the mischief.
Had I a heart for falsehood framed, I ne'er could injure you.
The quarrel is a very pretty quarrel as it stands - we should only spoil it by trying to explain it.