All Is Well Ended If

He Hath Not Eat Paper, As It Were; He Hath Not Drunk Ink; His Intellect Is Not Replenished; He Is Only An Animal, Only Sensible In The Duller Parts. (shakespeare, Love's Labor's Lost, Iv)

You Are Not Wood, You Are Not Stones, But Men.

O, Grief Hath Changed Me Since You Saw Me Last, And Careful Hours With Time's Deformed Hand Have Written Strange Defeatures In My Face. But Tell Me Yet, Dost Thou Not Know My Voice?

That's A Valiant Flea That Dares Eat His Breakfast On The Lip Of A Lion.

I'll Make Death Love Me; For I Will Contend Even With His Pestilent Scythe.