Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

Thou art the Mars of malcontents.

Have I thought long to see this morning’s face, And doth it give me such a sight as this?

In a false quarrel there is no true valor.

A miracle. Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light I take thee for pity. Beatrice: I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Benedick: Peace. I will stop your mouth.

I am a man more sinned against than sinning

I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing.