What My Tongue Dares Not That My

Thus Did I Keep My Person Fresh And New, My Presence, Like A Robe Pontifical, Ne'er Seen But Wondered At, And So My State, Seldom But Sumptuous, Showed Like A Feast.

The Foole Doth Thinke He Is Wise, But The Wiseman Knowes Himselfe To Be A Foole.

We Are Such Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of.

It Is Not Night When I Do See Your Face.

Why, I' Faith, Methinks She's Too Low For A High Praise, Too Brown For A Fair Praise And Too Little For A Great Praise: Only This Commendation I Can Afford Her, That Were She Other Than She Is, She Were Unhandsome; And Being No Other But As She Is, I Do Not Like Her. (benedick, From Much Ado About Nothing)