A fusty nut with no kernel.

I would there were no age between sixteen and three-and-twenty, or that youth would sleep out the rest; for there is nothing in the between but getting wenches with child, wronging the ancientry, stealing, fighting

You are an alchemist; make gold of that.

They are in the very wrath of love, and they will go together. Clubs cannot part them

Lady, you are the cruel'st she alive If you will lead these graces to the grave And leave the world no copy.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.