I do now remember the poor creature, small beer.

Come, come, good wine is a good familiar creature if it be well used; exclaim no more against it

Though he is small, he is but fierce.

Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poor: For 'tis the mind that makes the body rich; and as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honor peereth in the meanest habit

The sense of death is most in apprehension;
And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,
In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great
As when a giant dies.