'tis Best To Weigh The Enemy More

Verily, I Swear, It Is Better To Be Lowly Born, And Range With Humble Livers In Content, Than To Be Perked Up In A Glistering Grief, And Wear A Golden Sorrow.

Sweet Beatrice, Wouldst Thou Come When I Called Thee? Beatrice Yea, Signior, And Depart When You Bid Me. Benedick O, Stay But Till Then! Beatrice 'then' Is Spoken; Fare You Well Now... (much Ado About Nothing)

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent.

To Show Our Simple Skill, That Is The True Beginning Of Our End.

Tis A Happy Thing To Be The Father Unto Many Sons.