Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes.
We do not keep the outward form of order, where there is deep disorder in the mind.
Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.
Better a witty fool than a foolish wit.
You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.
A golden mind stoops not to shows of dross.