A miracle. Here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee, but by this light I take thee for pity. Beatrice: I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption. Benedick: Peace. I will stop your mouth.

My love admits no qualifying dross

What, can the devil speak true?

'Tis best to weigh the enemy more mighty than he seems.

The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree.

Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.

You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.