A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man.

King Lear. Act iii. Sc. 2.

There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths

Oh, that way madness lies; let me shun that.

Sc. 4.

Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,

How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,

Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?

Ibia.

But mice and rats, and such small deer,
Have been Tom's food for seven long year.

Ibid.

The prince of darkness is a gentleman.1

Ibid.

Poor Tom's a-cold.

Ibid.

I'll talk a word with this same learned Theban.

Ibid.

Child Rowland to the dark tower came,

His word was still, — Fie, foh, and fum,

I smell the blood of a British man.

Ibid.

The little dogs and all,

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me.

Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim,
Hound or spaniel, brach or lym,
Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail.

King Lear. Act iii. Sc. 6

I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.

Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!

Methinks he seems no bigger than his head :

The fishermen that walk upon the beach

Appear like mice.

Nature's above art in that respect.

Ay, every inch a king.

Sc. 6.

Ibid.

Ibid.

Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination.

Ibid.

A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yond justice rails upon yond simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief?

Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear;
Robes and furr'd gowns hide all.

Mine enemy's dog,

Though he had bit me, should have stood that night

Ibid.

Ibid.

Against my fire.

Pray you now, forget and forgive.

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,

The gods themselves throw incense.

Sc. 7.

Ibid.

Act v. Sc. 3

The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices

Make instruments to plague us. King Lear. Act v. Sc. 3.

Her voice was ever soft,

Gentle, and low,

an excellent thing in woman.

Ibid.

Vex not his ghost: O, let him pass! he hates him much That would upon the rack of this tough world

Stretch him out longer.

That never set a squadron in the field,

Nor the division of a battle knows.

The bookish theoric.

'Tis the curse of service,

Preferment goes by letter and affection,

Ibid

Othello. Act i. Sc. 1.

Ibid.

And not by old gradation, where each second
Stood heir to the first.

Ibid.

You are one of those that will not serve God, if the

devil bid you.

Ibid.

The wealthy curled darlings of our nation.

Sc. 2.

Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,

My very noble and approv'd good masters,

That I have ta'en away this old man's daughter,
It is most true; true, I have married her :
The very head and front of my offending

Hath this extent, no more. Rude am I in my speech,1
And little bless'd with the soft phrase of peace:
For since these arms of mine had seven years' pith,
Till now some nine moons wasted, they have used

Their dearest action in the tented field,

And little of this great world can I speak,

More than pertains to feats of broil and battle,

And therefore little shall I grace my cause

In speaking for myself. Yet, by your gracious patience, I will a round unvarnish'd tale deliver

Of my whole course of love.

Othello. Act i. Sc. 3.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;
Still question'd me the story of my life,
From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,
That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,
To the very moment that he bade me tell it :
Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach,
Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence

And portance in my travels' history;

Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven, It was my hint to speak, such was the process;

And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear 1
Would Desdemona seriously incline.

And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,
She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;

Ibid.

She swore, in faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange, 'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful;

She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd

That Heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me, And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,

1 "These things to hear" in Singer.

I should but teach him how to tell my story,
And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:
She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,
And I loved her that she did pity them.
This only is the witchcraft I have used.

Othello. Act i. Sc. 3.

I do perceive here a divided duty.

Ibid.

The robb'd that smiles, steals something from the thief.

The food that to him now is as luscious as locusts, shall be to him shortly as bitter as coloquintida.

Ibid.

Framed to make women false.

Ibid.

One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens. Act ii. Sc. 1.

For I am nothing, if not critical.

Ibid.

I am not merry; but I do beguile
The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.

Ibid.

She that was ever fair and never proud,
Had tongue at will, and yet was never loud.

Ibid.

She was a wight, if ever such wight were,

Des. To do what?

Iago. To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.
Des. O most lame and impotent conclusion!

Ibid.

You may relish him more in the soldier than in the scholar.

Ibid

If after every tempest come such calms,

May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

Ibid