First Lord

Cloten
And that she should love this fellow and
refuse me!
Second Lord, aside
If it be a sin to make a true election,
she is damned.

She shines not upon fools, lest
the reflection should hurt her.

First Lord
Sir, as I told you always,
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First Lord
Joy and all comfort in your sacred breast.
Second Lord
And keep your mind till you return to us
Peaceful and comfortable.

’Tis time to fear when tyrants seems to kiss;

Helicanus
Peace, peace, and give experience tongue.
They do abuse the King that flatter him,
For flattery is the bellows blows up sin;
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First Lord
Might we but have that happiness, my
lord, that you would once use our hearts, whereby
we might express some part of our zeals, we
should think ourselves forever perfect.

We are born to do benefits. And what better
or properer can we call our own than the
riches of our friends?

Timon
O,
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Cloten
Was there ever man had such luck? When I
kissed the jack, upon an upcast to be hit away? I
had a hundred pound on ’t. And then a whoreson
jackanapes must take me up for swearing, as if I
borrowed mine oaths of him and might not spend
them at my pleasure.

That such a crafty devil as is his mother
Should yield the world this ass!
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Parolles
I know not what the success will be, my
lord, but the attempt I vow.
Bertram
I know thou ‘rt valiant, and to the possibility
of thy soldiership will subscribe for thee. Farewell.

I love not many words.

Parolles
I love not many words. He exits.
First Lord
No more than a fish loves water.
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Jaques
Which is he that killed the deer?
First Lord
Sir, it was I.

What shall he have that killed the deer?
His leather skin and horns to wear.

Jaques, to the other Lords
Let’s present him to the
Duke like a Roman conqueror. And it would do well
to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of
victory.—Have you no song,
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Jaques
Which is he that killed the deer?
First Lord
Sir, it was I.
Jaques, to the other Lords
Let’s present him to the
Duke like a Roman conqueror. And it would do well
to set the deer’s horns upon his head for a branch of
victory.—Have you no song,
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First Lord
Sir, his wife some two months since fled
from his house. Her pretense is a pilgrimage to
Saint Jaques le Grand, which holy undertaking
with most austere sanctimony she accomplished.
And, there residing, the tenderness of her nature
became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan
of her last breath,
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First Soldier
If you could find out a country where
but women were that had received so much
shame, you might begin an impudent nation. Fare
you well, sir. I am for France too. We shall speak of
you there.  He exits.

Who knows himself a braggart,
Let him fear this, for it will come to pass
That every braggart shall be found an ass.
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Claudio
Is this the monument of Leonato?
First Lord
It is, my lord.

Now music, sound, and sing your solemn hymn.

Claudio, reading an  Epitaph.

Done to death by slanderous tongues
  Was the Hero that here lies.
Death, in guerdon of her wrongs,
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