Thrust your head into the public street, to gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces.

You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.

My crown is in my heart, not on my head; not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, nor to be seen: my crown is called content, a crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.

Fill all thy bones with aches.

Sir, he's a good dog, and a fair dog.

O, what men dare do! what men may do! what men daily do, not knowing what they do.

If all the year were playing holidays; To sport would be as tedious as to work.