I hate ingratitude more in a man than lying, vainness, babbling drunkenness, or any taint of vice.
I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad – and to travel for it too.
I dote on his very absence.
I cannot weep, for all my body’s moisture scarce serves to quench my furnace-burning heart.
I burn, I pine, I perish.
I am not only witty in myself, but the cause that wit is in other men.
I am not mad: I would to God I were, for then ’tis like I should forget myself.
I am not bound to please thee with my answer.
I am a man more sinned against than sinning.
I ‘gin to be aweary of the sun, and wish th’ estate o’ th’ world were now undone.
How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child!
How poor are they that have not patience! What wound did ever heal but by degrees?
