Rude am I in my speech, And little blessed with the soft phrase of peace.

The big round tears Cours'd one another down his innocent nose, In piteous chase.

You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.

There is a time in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune.

I am one, sir, that comes to tell you your daughter and the Moor are now making the beast with two backs.(IAGO,ActI,SceneI)

Love that well which thou must leave ere long.

I never yet did hear, That the bruis'd heart was pierced through the ear