Let the galled jade wince; our withers are unwrung.
We cannot all be masters.
Oh, God! I have an ill-divining soul!
Give me mine angle, we'll to th' river: there, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws; and as I draw them up, I'll think them every one an Antony, And say, 'Ah, ha! are caught!'
The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.
A high hope for a low heaven: God grant us patience!