Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?
Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.
Love laughs at locksmiths.
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
Is this a vision? Is this a dream? Do I sleep?
More fools know Jack Fool than Jack Fool knows.