I am such a tender ass, if my hair do but tickle me, I must scratch.

All that glitters is not gold.

He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.

But whate'er I am, nor I nor any man that but man is, With nothing shall be pleased 'til he be eased With being nothing.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

Throw physic to the dogs; I'll none of it.

Let men say we be men of good government, being governed, as the sea is, by our noble and chaste mistress the moon, under whose countenance we steal.