This goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory.
A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
A smile cures the wounding of a frown.
Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground.
O that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth! Then with passion would I shake the world.
Glory grows guilty of detested crimes.