Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?

Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England; fairly met!

Bounty, being free itself, thinks all others so.

What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death.

Love will not be spurred to what it loathes

He is well paid that is well satisfied.