Ay, Much is the force of heaven-bred poesy.

Britain is A world by itself, and we will nothing pay For wearing our own noses.

It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?

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?

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

O time, thou must untangle this, not I. It is too hard a knot for me t'untie.

When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.