What, with my tongue in your tail? nay, come again, Good Kate; I am a gentleman.
He was not so much brain as earwax
A goodly portly man, i' faith, and a corpulent; of a cheerful look, a pleasing eye, and a most noble carriage; and, as I think, his age some fifty, or, by'r Lady, inclining to threescore; and now I remember me, his name is Falstaff.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond.
Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.
The setting sun, and the music at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, Writ in rememberance more than long things past.