Tis ever common That men are merriest when they are from home.

Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am

'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.

Being of no power to make his wishes good: His promises fly so beyond his state That what he speaks is all in debt; he owes For every word.

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.— Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!

If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry: be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, thou shalt not escape calumny.

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.