The band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity.

What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?

Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.

What power is it which mounts my love so high, that makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.

Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.

Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.