Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

All that glisters is not gold; Often have you heard that told: Many a man his life hath sold But my outside to behold: Gilded tombs do worms enfold.

A sad tale's best for winter. I have one of sprites and goblins.

A little water clears us of this deed.

Would it not grieve a woman to be over-mastered by a piece of valiant dust? to make an account of her life to a clod of wayward marle?

What: is the jay more precious than the lark because his feathers are more beautiful?

All pride is willing pride.