Fools are as like husbands as pilchards are to herrings, the husband's the bigger.
Well, every one can master a grief but he that has it.
Conscience doth make cowards of us all.
You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!
I am a foe to tyrants, and my country's friend.
For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.