O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.
I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.
Look on beauty, and you shall see 'tis purchased by the weight.
To take arms against a sea of troubles.
O, let him pass. He hates him That would upon the rack of this tough world Stretch him out longer.
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?