But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Having my freedom, boast of nothing else.
Crack'd in pieces by malignant Death.
Not that I loved Caesar less, but that I loved Rome more.
Sweet Beatrice, wouldst thou come when I called thee? BEATRICE Yea, signior, and depart when you bid me. BENEDICK O, stay but till then! BEATRICE 'Then' is spoken; fare you well now... (Much Ado About Nothing)