Why What A Fool Was I To

When A Father Gives To His Son, Both Laugh; When A Son Gives To His Father, Both Cry.

For Sweetest Things Turn Sourest By Their Deeds; Lillies That Fester Smell Far Worse Than Weeds.

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?

Conscience Is A Thousand Swords.

O All You Host Of Heaven! O Earth! What Else? And Shall I Couple Hell?