Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.

O Judgment ! Thou art fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost their reason !

Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.

O! Let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven; keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff; Life and these lips have long been separated: Death lies on her like an untimely frost Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.

The soul of this man is his clothes.

Trifles light as air are to the jealous confirmations strong as proofs of holy writ.