The robbed that smiles, steals something from the thief.

What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts.

An envious fever of pale and bloodless emulation.

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.

What valor were it, when a cur doth grin, for one to thrust his hand between his teeth, when he might spurn him with his foot away?

His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.

Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own