Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.

Out, you tallow-face! You baggage!

For what good turn? Messenger: For the best turn of the bed.

So curses all Eve's daughters of what complexion soever.

Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought, And with a green and yellow melancholy She sat like patience on a monument, Smiling at grief

Though those that are betray'd Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor stands in worse case of woe

Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill.