How weary, stale, flat, and unprofitable seem to me all the uses of this world.

My pride fell with my fortunes.

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud.

I am afeard few die well that die in a battle.

Whom the vile blows and buffets of the world Have so incensed that I am reckless.

Of all matches never was the like.

Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.