Conscience is but a word that cowards use, devised at first to keep the strong in awe

I must to the barber's, monsieur, for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.

Time and the hour run through the roughest day.

Or art thou but / A dagger of the mind, a false creation, / Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.

On the bat’s back I do fly After summer merrily.