Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.

As in a theatre, the eyes of men, after a well-graced actor leaves the stage, are idly bent on him that enters next.

There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.

Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.

Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.

Here comes Monseiur Le Beau. Rosalind: With his mouth full of news. Celia: Which he will put on us, as pigeons feed their young. Rosalind: Then shall we be news-crammed. Celia: All the better; we shall be the more marketable.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!