She moves me not, or not removes at least affection's edge in me.
A woman moved is like a fountain troubled, Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty.
The insolence of office.
Life is as tedious as twice-told tale, vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man.
Your cause of sorrow must not be measured by his worth, for then it hath no end.
I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?