What e'er thou art, act well thy part.
Some report a sea-maid spawn'd him; some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. But it is certain that when he makes water his urine is congealed ice.
My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.
The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.
God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.
O war! thou son of Hell!