Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased, Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, Raze out the written troubles of the brain

This fellow pecks up wit, as pigeons peas; And utters it again when God doth please: He is wit's pedler; and retails his wares.

You have lost no reputation at all, unless you repute yourself such a loser.

Cheerily to sea; the signs of war advance: No king of England, if not king of France

The Eyes are the window to your soul

We bring forth weeds when our quick minds lie still.

I am not in the giving vein today.