There is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman than report of valor.
They lie deadly that tell you have good faces.
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief
It hurts not the tongue to give fair words.
Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.