Infirm of purpose! Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead are but as pictures: ‘tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil
You speak an infinite deal of nothing.
How much better is it to weep at joy than to joy at weeping?
They have been grand-jurymen since before Noah was a sailor
All is well ended, if the suit be won.
As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods; they kill us for their sport.