An honest fellow enough, and one that loves quails, but he has not so much brain as ear-wax.
A poor virgin, sir, an ill-favored thing, sir, but mine own.
Don Pedro. Will you have me, lady? Beatrice. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working-days: your grace is too costly to wear every day.
True, I talk of dreams, Which are the children of an idle brain, Begot of nothing but vain fantasy, Which is as thin of substance as the air, And more inconstant than the wind, who woos Even now the frozen bosom of the north, And being angered, puffs away from thence, Turning his side to the dew-dropping south.
Rosencrantz. What have you done, my lord, with the dead body? Hamlet. Compounded it with dust, whereto 'tis kin.
The labor we delight in physics pain.
Time, force, and death Do to this body what extremes you can, But the strong base and building of my love Is as the very centre of the earth, Drawing all things to it.
I cannot tell what the dickens his name is.
I will through and through Cleanse the foul body of th' infected world, If they will patiently receive my medicine.
As familiar with me as my dog.