All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds, That sees into the bottom of my grief?
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.
All that glitters is not gold.
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?
Despair and die. The ghosts