Give Thy Thoughts No Tongue, Nor Any

Art Thou Afeard To Be The Same In Thine Own Act And Valour As Thou Art In Desire? Wouldst Thou Have That Which Thou Esteem'st The Ornament Of Life, And Live A Coward In Thine Own Esteem, Letting 'i Dare Not' Wait Upon 'i Would,' Like The Poor Cat I' The Adage?

Call Me What Instrument You Will, Though You Can Fret Me, You Cannot Play Upon Me.

Nothing Can Come Of Nothing.

Like A Man Made After Supper Of A Cheese-paring: When A' Was Naked, He Was, For All The World, Like A Forked Radish, With A Head Fantastically Carved Upon It With A Knife.

I Would Not Lose So Great An Honor As One Man More Methinks Would Share With Me For The Best Hope I Have.