Yet Writers Say, As In The Sweetest

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.

Let Men Say We Be Men Of Good Government, Being Governed, As The Sea Is, By Our Noble And Chaste Mistress The Moon, Under Whose Countenance We Steal.

But No Perfection Is So Absolute, That Some Impurity Doth Not Pollute.

How Slow This Old Moon Wanes! She Lingers My Desires, Like To A Stepdame, Or A Dowager, Long Withering Out A Young Man's Revenue.