The soul of this man is his clothes.

Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!

I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

Liberty plucks justice by the nose; The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart Goes all decorum.

I find my zenith doth depend upon A most auspicious star, whose influence If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes Will ever after droop.

I am indeed, sir, a surgeon to old shoes; when they are in great danger I recover them.

Who is it that can tell me who I am?