Never, never, never, never, never! Pray you, undo this button.

Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.

When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven

Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

If they love they know not why, they hate upon no better ground, they hate upon no better a ground

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?