What The Vengeance, Could He Not Speak

The Cat Will Mew, And Dog Will Have His Day.

I Humbly Do Beseech Of Your Pardon, For Too Much Loving You

No Matter Where; Of Comfort No Man Speak: Let's Talk Of Graves, Of Worms, And Epitaphs; Make Dust Our Paper And With Rainy Eyes Write Sorrow On The Bosom Of The Earth

Hot And Hasty, Like A Scotch Jig.

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)