Graze on my lips; and if those hills be dry, stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.
The course of true love never did run smooth.
Oh what fools we mortals are.
I have not slept one wink.
If fortune torments me, hope contents me.
Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee? BEATRICE Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. BENEDICK O, stay but till then! BEATRICE 'Then' is spoken; fare you well now... (Much Ado About Nothing)