Slander lives upon succession, For ever housed where it gets possession.

He knows what it's like to strut and fret his hour upon the stage and then be heard no more.

If there were reason for these miseries, then into limits could I bind my woes. If the winds rages, doth not the sea wax mad, threat'ning the welkin with its big-swoll'n face? And wilt though have a reason for this coil? I am the sea. Hark how her sighs doth blow. She is the weeping welkin, I the earth.

Here comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With his mouth full of news. Celia: Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. Rosalind: Then shall we be news-crammed. Celia: All the better; we shall be the more marketable.

He's loved of the distracted multitude, who like not in their judgement, but their eyes.

But miserable most, to love unloved? This you should pity rather than despise

Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might. Whoever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight.