The third day comes a frost, a killing frost.

I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valor.

O, beware, my lord, of jealousy; It is the green-ey'd monster, which doth mock The meat it feeds on.

O thou invisible spirit of wine, if thou hast no name to be known by, let us call thee devil.

A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?

She marking them begins a wailing note And sings extemporally a woeful ditty How love makes young men thrall and old men dote How love is wise in folly, foolish-witty Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so.

Tis no sin for a man to labor in his vocation.