Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.

When once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right.

Under the greenwood tree, Who loves to lie with me And tune his merry note, Unto the sweet bird's throat; Come hither, come hither, come hither. Here shall he see No enemy But winter and rough weather.

I must be cruel, only to be kind.

But yet, I say, if imputation and strong circumstances, which lead directly to the door of truth, will give you satisfaction, you may have it.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.