Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.
Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.
Before, I loved thee as a brother, John, But now, I do respect thee as my soul.
When I waked, I cried to dream again
Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.
I profess not talking: only this, Let each man do his best.