Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts.

My thought, whose murder yet is but fantastical, Shakes so my single state of man That function is smothered in surmise, And nothing is but what is not.

Thou sodden-witted lord! thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.

Sweet are the uses of adversity which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, wears yet a precious jewel in his head.

Knit your hearts with an unslipping knot.

But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!

There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.