If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.

Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.