Who talks much, must talk in vain.
Were I laid on Greenland's Coast, And in my Arms embrac'd my Lass; Warm amidst eternal Frost, Too soon the Half Year's Night would pass.
Do you think your mother and I should have lived comfortably so long together, if ever we had been married? Baggage!
Fair is the marigold, for pottage meet.
No author ever spar'd a brother.
And when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place.