Wilt thou whip thine own faults in other men?

What a pretty thing man is when he goes in his doublet and hose and leaves off his wit!

Bell, book and candle shall not drive me back, When gold and silver becks me to come on.

Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.

Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.

A harmless necessary cat.