Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, honest water, which ne'er left man i' the mire.
Your praises will become your wages.
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.
Taste your legs, sire: put them into motion.
Lord, what fools these mortals be!
Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.