LEONATO Well, niece, I hope to see you one day fitted with a husband. BEATRICE Not till God make men of some other metal than earth. Would it not grieve a woman to be overmastered with a pierce of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marl? No, uncle, I'll none: Adam's sons are my brethren; and, truly, I hold it a sin to match in my kindred.

The old folk, time's doting chronicles.

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.

Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, Which we ascribe to Heaven.

Conscience is a thousand swords.

Bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest.