There is no woman's sides Can bide the beating of so strong a passion As love doth give my heart; no woman's heart So big, to hold so much; they lack retention. Alas, their love may be called appetite.
Would I were in an alehouse in London. I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety.
A good soft pillow for that good white head Were better than a churlish turf of France.
Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest; Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in-a-door, And thou shalt have more Than two tens to a score.
Feste. Beshrew me, the knight's in admirable fooling. Sir Andrew Aguecheek. Ay, he does well enough if he be disposed, and so do I, too. He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.
But that I am forbid To tell the secrets of my prison-house, I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood.
Frailty, thy name is woman!
The deep of night is crept upon our talk, And nature must obey necessity.
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend The brightest heaven of invention! A kingdom for a stage, princes to act, And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
These hands do lack nobility that they strike A meaner than myself.