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)

Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.

My tongue will tell the anger of my heart, or else my heart concealing it will break.

The head is not more native to the heart.

Tis not the many oaths that make the truth; But the plain single vow, that is vow'd true.

Sorrow, like a heavy ringing bell, once set on ringing, with its own weight goes; then little strength rings out the doleful knell.

Time is the old justice that examines all such offenders, and let Time try.