His life was gentle; and the elements So mixed in him, that Nature might stand up And say to all the world, THIS WAS A MAN!

So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men.

I'll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him.

Perseverance, my dear Lord. Keeps honour bright.

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

First Witch He knows thy thought: Hear his speech, but say thou nought.

How is it that the clouds still hang on you?