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Kindle Notes & Highlights
pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by and by it will strike.
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness, And time to speak it in: you rub the sore, When you should bring the plaster.
It is foul weather in us all, good sir, When you are cloudy.
who are of such sensible and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing.
Thou dost snore distinctly; There’s meaning in thy snores.
Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a good 20 moon-calf.
