Some Kinds Of Baseness Are Nobly Undergone.

In The Modesty Of Fearful Duty, I Read As Much As From The Rattling Tongue Of Saucy And Audacious Eloquence.

Thou Canst Not Speak Of What Thou Dost Not Feel.

If The Skin Were Parchment And The Blows You Gave Were Ink, Your Own Handwriting Would Tell You What I Think.

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?

Full Many A Glorious Morn I Have Seen Flatter The Mountain-tops With Sovereign Eye, Kissing With Golden Face The Meadows Green, Gilding Pale Streams With Heavenly Alchemy.