Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.

The gallantry of his grief did put me into a towering passion.

I will make a Star-chamber matter of it.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear: That love is merchandised whose rich esteeming The owner's tongue doth publish every where.

They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.

My business was great, and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.

Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.