He that is truly dedicated to war hath no self-love
I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.
More matter with less art.
I have a soul of lead So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.
Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.
What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more. Sure he that made us with such large discourse, looking before and after, gave us not that capability and god-like reason to fust in us unused.