Who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down?

Have you not love enough to bear with me, when that rash humor which my mother gave me makes me forgetful.

Nature does require her time of preservation, which perforce, I her frail son amongst my brethren mortal, must give my attendance to.

His life was gentle; and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!

Oppose not rage while rage is in its force, but give it way a while and let it waste.

Silence is the perfect herald of joy.

A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!