The commonwealth of Athens is become a forest of beasts.

To be merry best becomes you; for, out of question, you were born in a merry hour.

Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, you cannot play upon me.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

There's small choice in rotten apples.

Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.

Rumor is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures.