O, let me kiss that hand! KING LEAR: Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.
Like a man made after supper of a cheese-paring: when a' was naked, he was, for all the world, like a forked radish, with a head fantastically carved upon it with a knife.
We are advertis'd by our loving friends.
Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber.
How much an ill word may empoison liking!
O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!