My cousin's a fool, and thou art another.
Is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
There is a kind of character in thy life, That to the observer doth thy history, fully unfold.
They are hare-brain'd slaves.
Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.
Some men there are love not a gaping pig, some that are mad if they behold a cat, and others when the bagpipe sings I the nose cannot contain their urine.