Look fresh and merrily, let not our looks put on our purposes.

O, I have fed upon this woe already, and now excess of it will make me surfeit.

Away to heaven respective lenity, and fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now!

Fewness and truth; ’tis thus:

Who finds the heifer dead and bleeding fresh, and sees fast by a butcher with an axe, but will suspect 'twas he that made the slaughter?

His flawed heart, alack, too weak the conflict to support, 'twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief, burst smilingly.

His giving out were of an infinite distance from his true-meant design.

Speak’st thou in sober meanings?

I prithee vent thy folly somewhere else.

It’s monstrous labor when I wash my brain and it grows fouler.

Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a direct answer.

Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.

I would thou hadst been son to some man else.

You may as well go about to turn the sun to ice with fanning in his face with a peacock’s feather.

Even as a splitted bark, so sunder we.

It is not well done, mark you now, to take the tales out of my mouth ere it is made an end and finished.

My lungs began to crow like chanticleer.

Her wits I fear me are not firm.

I have a motion much imports your good; whereto if you’ll a willing ear incline, what’s mine is yours, and what is yours is mine.

Your sense pursues not mine.

Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears, that long time have been barren!

I play the torturer by small and small to lengthen out the worst that must be spoken.

An there be any matter of weight chances, call up me.

Direct not him whose way himself will choose.

Look what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.

Though I am not splenative rash, yet have I in me something dangerous which let thy wisdom fear.