“Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born?When at your hands did I deserve this scorn?Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man,That I did never, no, nor never can,Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye,But you must flout my insufficiency?”

“I will be brief: your noble son is mad:Mad call I it; for, to define true madness,What is't but to be nothing else but mad?”

“How now, my sweet creature of bombast! How long is't ago, Jack, since thou saw'st thien own knee?”

“Why should you think that I should woo in scorn?Scorn and derision never come in tears:Look, when I vow, I weep; and vows so born, In their nativity all truth appears.How can these things in me seem scorn to you,Bearing the badge of faith, to prove them true?”

“Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.”

“To me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.”

“For thy sweet love remembr'd such wealth bringsThat then, I scorn to change my state with kings.”