How now, wit! Whither wander you?
You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him!
One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.
Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt.
Spirits are not finely touched But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends The smallest scruple of her excellence But like a thrifty goddess she determines Herself the glory of a creditor,Both thanks and use.
If love be blind, it best agrees with night