Dost thou think, because them art virtuous,
there shall be no more cakes and ale?
Act ii. Sc. 4.
She never told her love,
But let concealment, like a worm in the bud,
Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought,
And, with a green and yellow melancholy,
She sat, like Patience on a monument,
Smiling at grief.
Act iii. Sc. 1.
O, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful
In the contempt and anger of his lip!
Act iii. Sc. 1.
Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.
Act iii. Sc, 2.
Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.