Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.

Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art, As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel; For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart Thou art the fairest and most precious jewel.

What a deformed thief this fashion is.

I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old man and no honester than I.

The golden age is before us, not behind us.

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)

Flower of this purple dye, Hit with Cupid's archery, Sink in apple of his eye.