A man cannot make him laugh - but that's no marvel; he drinks no wine.
Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror
Sleep, that sometimes shuts up sorrow's eye.
Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks, but I thank you; and sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny.
Art made tongue-tied by authority.
Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.