Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.

Alas, sir, how fell you besides your five wits?" Malvolio: "Fool, there was never a man so notoriously abused. I am as well in my wits, fool, as thou art." Feste: "But as well? Then you are mad indeed, if you be no better in you wits than a fool.

And sleep, that sometime shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company.

I am falser than vows made in wine.

Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart.