These words are razors to my wounded heart.

What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, for one to thrust his hand between his teeth, when he might spurn him with his foot away?

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

This look of thine will hurl my soul from heaven.

O, full of scorpions is my mind!

If you would persuade, you must appeal to interest rather than intellect. We are advertis'd by our loving friends.