Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?
He that will have a cake out of the wheat must tarry the grinding.
Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.
Hot and hasty, like a Scotch jig.
Thou hast not half that power to do me harm As I have to be hurt.
A very scurvy fellow.