Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words
For you and I are past our dancing days.
The poorest service is repaid with thanks.
So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end
There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.
Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.