Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?

Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared.

Fear not, Cesario, take thy fortunes up. Be that thou know'st thou art and then thou art as great as that thou fear'st.

To be furious, is to be frighted out of fear.

They that have voice of lions and act of hares,--are they not monsters?

Is not the truth the truth?

This thing of darkness I Acknowledge mine.