His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.
What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.
A very ancient and fish-like smell.
Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog.
Winter, which, being full of care, makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch, which hurts and is desired.