Tell me, daughter Juliet, How stands your dispositions to be married" It is an honor that I dream not of

In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

I cannot speak your england.

But men may construe things after their fashion, Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.

Good counselors lack no clients.

Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.