This wimpled, whining, purblind, wayward boy, this Senior Junior, giant dwarf...Cupid.
Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.
Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.
O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.
It is silliness to live when to live is torment, and then have we a prescription to die when death is our physician.
Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.