He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.
You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.
Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.
Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
Plenty and peace breed cowards; hardness ever of hardiness is mother.