Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.

Silence is the perfectest herault of joy. I were but little happy if I could say how much.

But shall we wear these glories for a day? Or shall they last, and we rejoice in them?

They that touch pitch will be defiled.

My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.

I am very proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offences at my beck than I have thoughts to put them in, imagination to give them shape, or time to act them in.

He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.