It comes to pass oft that a terrible oath, with a swaggering accent sharply twanged off, gives manhood more approbation than ever proof itself would have earned him.
I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo to in festival terms.
There's neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.
I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see you are unarmed!
Go hang yourself, you naughty mocking uncle!
O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.