Let the sap of reason quench the fire of passion.
Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation
Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.
For mine own part, it was Greek to me.
Vice repeated is like the wandering wind, blows dust in others' eyes to spread itself.
I will kill thee a hundred and fifty ways.