Each present joy or sorrow seems the chief.
A jest's prosperity lies in the ear Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it.
Hang him, swaggering rascal!
We have some salt of our youth in us.
...too much sadness hath congealed your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy.
Thou hast the most unsavoury similes.