Act I

Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time:

I must be one of these same dumb wise men,

For Gratiano never lets me speak.

Well, keep me company but two years moe,

Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.

Farewell: I’ll grow a talker for this gear.

Thanks, i’ faith, for silence is only commendable

In a neat’s tongue dried and a maid not vendible.

Is that any thing now?