Your lordship, though not clean past your youth, have yet some smack of age in you, some relish of the saltiness of time.
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.
Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.
Golden lads and girls all must as chimney sweepers come to dust.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
You are not wood, you are not stones, but men.