A trifle, some eight-penny matter.
Thou hast no more brain than I have in mine elbows.
I'll rhyme you so eight years together, dinners and suppers and sleeping-hours excepted.
Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourself Are much condemn'd to have an itching palm.
There be some sports are painful, and their labor Delight in them sets off. Some kinds of baseness Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters Point to rich ends.
A soldier is better accommodated than with a wife.
And I did laugh sans intermission An hour by his dial. O noble fool, A worthy fool—motley's the only wear.
How irksome is this music to my heart! When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?
To my judgment your highness is not entertained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont.
Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Place sin with gold, And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks: Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.