Downy sleep, death's counterfeit.
I am indeed not her fool, but her corrupter of words. (Act III, sc. I, 37-38)
What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.
Hold, or cut bowstrings.
Oh! it offends me to the soul to hear a robust periwig-pated fellow, tear a passion to tatters, to very rags, to split the ears of the groundlings.
Who could refrain that had a heart to love and in that heart courage to make love known?