O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven
Affliction is enamoured of thy parts, And thou art wedded to calamity.
for Mercutio's soul Is but a little way above our heads, Staying for thine to keep him company: Either thou, or I, or both, must go with him.
Two women placed together makes cold weather.
You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.
Listen to many, speak to a few.