Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil

Happy are they that hear their detractions, and can put them to mending.

Ay, is it not a language I speak?

Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.

I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.

Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.

You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.