Speak me fair in death.
Violent fires soon burn out themselves, small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; he tires betimes that spurs too fast.
He is not worthy of the honey-comb, that shuns the hives because the bees have stings.
Words without thoughts never to heaven go.
Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light
But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds [vows] disgraced them." Viola: "Thy reason, man?" Feste: "Troth [Truthfully], sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loathe to prove reason with them.