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More from William Shakespeare

What is honour? A word. What is that word, honour? Air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? He that died o’ Wednesday.

Beatrice: I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.

BENEDICK: That a woman conceived me, I thank her; that she brought me up, I likewise give her most humble thanks: but that I will have a recheat winded in my forehead, or hang my bugle in an invisible baldrick, all women shall pardon me.

Trinculo:
misery acquaints a man with strange bed-fellows

Act ii, Sc. 2

The pound of flesh that I demand of him
Is dearly bought.

Shylock