The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow We are such stuff as dreams are made of.

Polonius: Do you know me, my lord? Hamlet: Excellent well. You are a fishmonger.

Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should without eyes see pathways to his will!

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.

That which is now a horse, even with a thought The rack dislimms, and makes it indistinct As water is in water

The icy precepts of respect.

A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!