A little more than kin, and less than kind.
Is she not passing fair?
The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.
He must needs go that the devil drives.
O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible, As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.
O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven