Unquiet Meals Make Ill Digestions.

They Are Hare-brain'd Slaves.

Tis Not A Year Or Two Shows Us A Man: They Are All But Stomachs, And We All But Food; They Eat Us Hungerly, And When They Are Full They Belch Us.

All Impediments In Fancy's Course Are Motives Of More Fancy.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.

O, My Lord, You Said That Idle Weeds Are Fast In Growth: The Prince My Brother Hath Outgrown Me Far.