I have told you enough of this. For my part I'll not meddle nor make no farther.
We are oft to blame in this, 'Tis too much proved, that with devotion's visage And pious action we do sugar o'er The devil himself.
Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us.
Why, Harry, do I tell thee of my foes, Which art my nearest and dearest enemy?
I am one, my liege, Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Hath so incensed that I am reckless what I do to spite the world.
Here's that which is too weak to be a sinner, Honest water, which ne'er left man i' th' mire.
There's small choice in rotten apples.
Gloucester. Nor further, sir, a man may rot even here. Edgar. What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure Their going hence, even as their coming hither; Ripeness is all.
The two hours' traffic of our stage.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.