Do not, as some ungracious pastors do, Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven; Whilst, like a puff'd and reckless libertine, Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads And recks not his own read.

If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father.

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.

[S]ince brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.

Present fears are less than horrible imaginings.

If the skin were parchment and the blows you gave were ink, Your own handwriting would tell you what I think.