Is twenty hundred kisses such a trouble?
And oft, my jealousy shapes faults that are not.
Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe
'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!
Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.
Unsubstantial Death is amorous.