Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

Get you gone, you dwarf,
You minimus of hindering knotgrass made,
You bead, you acorn!

CASSIO: Dost thou hear, my honest friend?
CLOWN: No, I hear not your honest friend, I hear you.
CASSIO: Prithee, keep up thy quillets.

Timon: Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!

Out of my sight! Thou dost infect mine eyes.

DESDEMONA: I hope my noble lord esteems me honest.
OTHELLO: Oh, ay, as summer flies are in the shambles,
That quicken even with blowing. O thou weed,
Who art so lovely fair and smell’st so sweet
That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born!
DESDEMONA: Alas, what ignorant sin have I committed?
OTHELLO: Was this fair paper, this most goodly book,
Made to write “whore” upon?