Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
Thou losest here, a better where to find.
Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.
Were all the letters sun, I could not see one.
When we are born, we cry that we have come to this stage of fools
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
Cordelia! stay a little. Ha! What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft.
I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust: to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.
Love's not love when it is mingled with regards that stand aloof from the entire point.
More fools know Jack Fool than Jack Fool knows.
Nor are those empty-hearthed whose low sound reverbs no hollowness.
The let-alone lies not in your good will.
This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so, it is a chance which does redeem all sorrows that ever I have felt.
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