Fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, where manners ne'er were preached.
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
One whom the music of his own vain tongue doth ravish like enchanting harmony.
April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
I can see he's not in your good books,' said the messenger. 'No, and if he were I would burn my library.
Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.