The native hue of resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; and enterprises of great pitch and moment, With this regard, their currents turn awry, and lose the name of action.

Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?

You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.

They are hare-brain'd slaves.

I long To hear the story of your life, which must Take the ear strangely.

And to be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour. BEATRICE No, sure, my lord, my mother cried; but then there was a star danced, and under that was I born.

The band that seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of their amity.