And makes me poor indeed.

For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!

The head is not more native to the heart.

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them.

Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

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?

Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foul would wear the brows of grace, Yet Grace must still look so.