Sin From Thy Lips? O Trespass Sweetly

That Is Honor's Scorn Which Challenges Itself As Honor's Born And Is Not Like The Sire. Honors Thrive When Rather From Our Acts We Them Derive Than Our Foregoers.

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?

You Jig, You Amble, And You Lisp.

I Heard A Bird So Sing, Whose Music, To My Thinking, Pleased The King.

Let There Be Gall Enough In Thy Ink, Though Thou Write With A Goose-pen, No Matter.