Thou Frothy Tickle-brained Hedge-pig!

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 Taught Me Language, And My Profit On't / Is, I Know How To Curse

All That Glitters Is Not Gold.

The Will Of Man Is By His Reason Sway'd.

If Little Faults Proceeding On Distemper Shall Not Be Winked At, How Shall We Stretch Our Eye When Capital Crimes, Chewed, Swallowed, And Digested, Appear Before Us?