Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.
Memory, the warder of the brain.
If the masses can love without knowing why, they also hate without much foundation.
A very ancient and fish-like smell.
More of your conversation would infect my brain.