Twas never merry world Since lowly feigning was called compliment.
My crown is in my heart, not on my head.
Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.
There is a tide in the affairs of men