That affable familiar ghost Which nightly gulls him with intelligence.
By my troth, I care not; a man can die but once; we owe God a death and let it go which way it will he that dies this year is quit for the next
Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
April ... hath put a spirit of youth in everything.
Beshrew the heart that makes my heart to groan.
God defend me from that Welsh fairy, Lest he transform me to a piece of cheese!