Your cracked jug seems better to me than my sound one.
You will not be loved if you care for none but yourself.
You used to be a baker, though now you wear gloves.
You surrender your freedom where you deposit your secret.
You notice what I drink, and not the thirst I feel.
You have debts, and make debts still; if you've not lied, lie you will.
You have broken my head and now you bring plaister.
You can't have more bed-bugs than a blanket-full.
Who arrays himself in other men's garments is stripped on the highway.
Whither shall the ox go, where he will not have to plough?
Whither goest thou, sorrow? Whither I am used to go.
Whilst the nurse suckles, we love her; when she is of no further use, she is forgotten.
Whether the pitcher strike the stone, or the stone the pitcher, woe be to the pitcher.
Whether it be so or not, husband, put on your hood. (He had told her there was a new law that every man with horns should wear a hood.)
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