All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content; which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.

The bitter clamor of two eager tongues.

He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle.

There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.

We were not born to sue, but to command.

I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.

Woe to that land that's governed by a child.