I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.
Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.
Death where is thy sting? Love, where is thy glory?
I, measuring his affections by my own, Which then most sought where most might not be found, Being one too many by my weary self, Pursued my humor not pursuing his, And gladly shunned who gladly fled from me.
You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.
There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.