Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

Oh, how this spring of love resembleth, The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all beauty of the Sun, And by and by a cloud takes all away

No, Cassius; for the eye sees not itself, But by reflection, by some other things.

They are hare-brain'd slaves.

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

But Kate, dost thou understand thus much English? Canst thou love me?" Catherine: "I cannot tell." Henry: "Can any of your neighbours tell, Kate? I'll ask them.

Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.