'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.

Thus hath the candle sing'd the moth. O these deliberate fools!

Tis the mind that makes the body rich.

Fishes live in the sea, as men do a-land; the great ones eat up the little ones.

The quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself

Make me a willow cabin at your gate, And call upon my soul within the house; Write loyal cantons of contemned love And sing them loud even in the dead of night.