But, indeed, words are very rascals, since bonds [vows] disgraced them." Viola: "Thy reason, man?" Feste: "Troth [Truthfully], sir, I can yield you none without words, and words are grown so false, I am loathe to prove reason with them.

Frailty, thy name is woman!

How many things by season seasoned are To their right praise and true perfection!

Wish chastely, and love dearly.

I have touched the highest point of all my greatness.

Weariness can snore upon the flint when resting sloth finds the down pillow hard.

Of all knowledge the wise and good seek most to know themselves.