Macduff: What three things does drink especially provoke? Porter: Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine.

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.

Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.

You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave.

Until I know this sure uncertainty, I'll entertain the offered fallacy.