'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!

Time's the king of men; he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.

Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

Through tattered clothes, small vices do appear. Robes and furred gowns hide all.

Thou frothy tickle-brained hedge-pig!

I would not wish any companion in the world but you.