Confusion now hath made his masterpiece.
Thou hast most traitorously corrupted the youth of the realm in erecting a grammar school.
Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me
They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon.
Who seeks, and will not take, when once 'tis offer'd, Shall never find it more.