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More from William Shakespeare

The old folk, time’s doting chronicles.

Beatrice: The count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion.

To me, fair Friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed

XIV. To me, fair Friend, you never can be old

The Devil can cite scripture to suit his purpose.

You know me well, and herein spend but time
To wind about my love with circumstance
And out of doubt you do me now more wrong.

Antonio: Act 1, Scene 1, lines 160-163