Words To Deeds Cold Breath Gives.

Oh, God! I Have An Ill-divining Soul!

O, How I Faint When I Of You Do Write, Knowing A Better Spirit Doth Use Your Name, And In The Praise Thereof Spends All His Might To Make Me Tongue-tied Speaking Of Your Fame.

What Sadness Lengthens Romeo’s Hours?

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?

Let Every Eye Negotiate For Itself And Trust No Agent.