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?
Women's weapons, water-drops.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.
Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own
Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.
Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.