Alas, I am a woman friendless, hopeless!
How my achievements mock me!
I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
This thought is as a death.
Some men there are love not a gaping pig, some that are mad if they behold a cat, and others when the bagpipe sings I the nose cannot contain their urine.
We go to gain a little patch of ground that hath in it no profit but the name.