A hand as fruitful as the land that feeds us; His dew falls everywhere.

Wherefore was I to this keen mockery born? When at your hands did I deserve this scorn? Is't not enough, is't not enough, young man, That I did never, no, nor never can, Deserve a sweet look from Demetrius' eye, But you must flout my insufficiency?

O world, how apt the poor are to be proud!

I do desire we may be better strangers.

To whom God will, there be the victory.

The elephant hath joints, but none for courtesy; his legs are legs for necessity, not for flexure.

All his successors gone before him have done 't; and all his ancestors that come after him may.