For you and I are past our dancing days.

Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him; some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

Who can be patient in extremes?

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good; a shining gloss that fadeth suddenly; a flower that dies when it begins to bud; a doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, lost, faded, broken, dead within an hour.

Hereditary sloth instructs me.

Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.