Heaven give you many, many merry days.

And to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.

Avaunt, you cullions!

A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.

Fie, fie, how frantically I square my talk!

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.