The hideous god of war.

Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.

Like a barber's chair that fits all buttocks.

He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.

QUINCE Francis Flute, the bellows-mender. FLUTE Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE Flute, you must take Thisby on you. FLUTE What is Thisby? a wandering knight? QUINCE It is the lady that Pyramus must love. FLUTE Nay, faith, let me not play a woman; I have a beard coming.

All the world is a stage and we are merely players.

Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.