My pride fell with my fortunes.

Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?

Lord, Lord, how subject we old men are to this vice of lying!

By Heaven, I love thee better than myself

I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks.

In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.