He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

I love a ballad in print o' life, for then we are sure they are true.

What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?

So, good night unto you all. Give me your hands, if we be friends, and Robin shall restore amends.

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.

The present eye praises the present object.

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own