'Tis Fate that flings the dice, And as she flings Of kings makes peasants, And of peasants kings.

A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pygmy-body to decay, And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.

A horrid stillness first invades the ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.

A knock-down argument; 'tis but a word and a blow.

A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome; Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong. Was everything by starts, and nothing long; But in the course ...

A mob is the scum that rises upmost when the nation boils.

A very merry, dancing, drinking, Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking time.

Above any Greek or Roman name.

According to her cloth she cut her coat.

All human things are subject to decay, And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.