Love is like a child, That longs for everything it can come by
Who soars too near the sun, with golden wings, melts them.
Pastime passing excellent, if it he husbanded with modesty.
Thou canst not speak of what thou dost not feel.
What, my dear Lady Disdain! are you yet living? Beatrice: Is it possible disdain should die while she hath such meet food to feed it as Signior Benedick?
They that stand high have many blasts to shake them.