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?

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.

Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again discarded faith.

Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

I am not bound to please thee with my answer.

Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that he is?

I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.