You Speak An Infinite Deal Of Nothing.

Either To Die The Death Or To Abjure For Ever The Society Of Men. Therefore, Fair Hermia, Question Your Desires; Know Of Your Youth, Examine Well Your Blood, Whether, If You Yield Not To Your Father's Choice, You Can Endure The Livery Of A Nun, For Aye To Be In Shady Cloister Mew'd, To Live A Barren Sister All Your Life, Chanting Faint Hymns To The Cold Fruitless Moon. Thrice-blessed They That Master So Their Blood, To Undergo Such Maiden Pilgrimage; But Earthlier Happy Is The Rose Distill'd, Than That Which Withering On The Virgin Thorn Grows, Lives And Dies In Single Blessedness.

Love's Mind Of Judgment Rarely Hath A Taste: Wings And No Eyes Figure Unheedy Haste.

What, Can The Devil Speak True?

Mind Your Speech A Little Lest You Should Mar Your Fortunes.

Right Joyous Are We To Behold Your Face, Most Worthy Brother England; Fairly Met!