O coward conscience, how dost thou afflict me!
Alas, their love may be call'd appetite. No motion of the liver, but the palate
The best is yet to come.
Absence doth sharpen love, presence strengthens it; the one brings fuel, the other blows it till it burns clear.
This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father.