Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

If it will feed nothing else, it will feed my revenge.

Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.

Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.

And therefore, — since I cannot prove a lover, To entertain these fair well-spoken days, — I am determined to prove a villain, And hate the idle pleasures of these days.

Oh, flatter me; for love delights in praises.

I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I'll be married to a sponge.