All the world's a stage, and all the men and women mearly players.
This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
Hung be the heavens with black! Yield, day, to night!
The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.
I am sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.
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)