The devil is a gentleman.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

By that sin fell the angels.

Blest are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled, That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please.

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

What a piece of work is a man

Give me to drink mandragora.