How Now, Wit! Whither Wander You?

O Shame, Where Is Thy Blush?

Tongues I'll Hang On Every Tree That Shall Civil Sayings Show. . . .

I Had Rather Chop This Hand Off At A Blow, And With The Other Fling It At Thy Face.

O, Beware, My Lord, Of Jealousy; It Is The Green-ey'd Monster, Which Doth Mock The Meat It Feeds On.

O Villains, Vipers, Dogs, Easily Won To Fawn On Any Man!