Friendship is full of dregs.

For he was likely, had he been put on, to have proved most royally.

I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

The soul of this man is his clothes.

Your date is better in your pie and your porridge than in your cheek.

Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.