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Away, you three-inch fool!
– William Shakespeare
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Thou art unfit for any place but hell.
I do desire we may be better strangers.
Bid them wash their faces, And keep their teeth clean.
You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, – I banish you.
Frailty, thy name is woman!
More matter, with less art.
Do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe?
There’s neither honesty, manhood, nor good fellowship in thee.
On, bacons, on!
Lord, Lord! how subject we old men are to this vice of lying.
Is it not strange that desire should so many years outlive performance?
That’s a perilous shot out of an elder-gun.
Thou damned and luxurious mountain goat.
Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither.
This is a slight unmeritable man, Meet to be sent on errants.
I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon, Than such a Roman.
Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter!
You are not worth the dust which the rude wind Blows in your face.
It is certain that when he makes water, his urine is congealed ice.
Thou art the best o’ the cut-throats.
How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags!
May his pernicious soul Rot half a grain a day!
Thou cam’st on earth to make the earth my hell.
O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face! Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man.
There’s small choice in rotten apples.
I do begin to have bloody thoughts.
A feather for each wind that blows.