We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.
My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind; So flew'd, so sanded; their heads are hung with ears that sweep away the morning dew.
a wild dedication of yourselves To undiscovered waters, undreamed shores.
Thou lump of foul deformity!
Extremity is the trier of spirits.
Woe to that land that's governed by a child.