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?
O, Thou hast damnable iteration; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint.
O wretched state! o bosom black as death!
You great benefactors, sprinkle our society with thankfulness. For your own gifts, make yourselves praised.
I cannot but remember such things were that were most precious to me.
O, reason not the need!