You cannot call it love, for at your age the heyday in the blood is tame

What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

And sleep, that sometime shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company.

Small things make base men proud.

Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast, With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts- O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power So to seduce!

The silence often of pure innocence persuades when speaking fails.