Being daily swallowed by men's eyes, They surfeited with honey and began To loathe the taste of sweetness, whereof a little More than a little is by much too much. So, when he had occasion to be seen, He was but as the cuckoo is in June. Heard, not regarded.

What a piece of work is a man

For trust not him that hath once broken faith

And be these juggling friends no more believ'd, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to our hope.

There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.

The rain, it raineth every day.

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me