Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand. O, that I were a glove upon that hand That I might touch that cheek!
Foolery, sir, does walk about the orb like the sun; it shines everywhere.
Sin will pluck on sin.
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.