No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.
I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
There was a star danced, and under that was I born.
Time travels in divers paces with divers persons.
How now, wit! Whither wander you?