These are the forgeries of jealousy; And never, since the middle summer's spring, Met we on hill, in dale, forest, or mead, By paved fountain or by rushy brook, Or in the beached margent of the sea, To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind, But with thy brawls thou hast disturbed our sport.

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.

Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.

The icy precepts of respect.

I understand a fury in your words But not your words.

Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.