How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath To say to me that thou art out of breath?

Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?

Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth, mistook by me, Pleading for a lover's fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!

No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.

Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.

Oh why rebuke you him that loves you so? / Lay breath so bitter on your bitter foe.

I am not merry, but I do beguile the thing I am by seeming otherwise.