Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?
If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.
My heart is ever at your service.
The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.
Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
Talkers are no good doers.