When truth kills truth, O devilish holy fray!

There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings.

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.

I’ll look to like, if looking liking move; But no more deep will I endart mine eye than your consent gives strength to make it fly.

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

To be furious, is to be frighted out of fear.

Good wine needs no bush.