Some falls the means are happier to rise.

Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.

If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

'Tis dangerous to take a cold, to sleep, to drink; but I tell you, my lord fool, out of this nettle, danger, we pluck this flower, safety.

In a false quarrel there is no true valor.

Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!