Why, i' faith, methinks she's too low for a high praise, too brown for a fair praise and too little for a great praise: only this commendation I can afford her, that were she other than she is, she were unhandsome; and being no other but as she is, I do not like her. (Benedick, from Much Ado About Nothing)

If people knew how much I hated them, they'd love me for holding it in.

Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears.

The prize of all too precious you.

Men in rage strike those that wish them best.

And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.

Why didst thou promise such a beauteous day And make me travel forth without my cloak, To let base clouds o'ertake me in my way, Hiding they brav'ry in their rotten smoke?