A foolish extravagant spirit, full of forms, figures, shapes, objects, ideas, apprehensions, motions, revolutions: these are begot in the ventricle of memory, nourished in the womb of pia mater.
Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act IV., Sc. II.
——whose skull Jove cram with brains! * * * * a most weak pia mater. Twelfth Night, Act I., Sc. V.
Many a time, but for a sallet, my brain-pan had been cleft with a brown bill. Henry VI—2d, Act IV., Sc. X.
Servant. My lord you have one eye left. Cornwall. Lest it see more, prevent it.— Out, vile jelly! Where is thy lustre now? King Lear, Act III., Sc. VII.
Like a strutting player,—whose conceit Lies in his hamstring. Troilus and Cressida, Act I., Sc. III.
Thy bones are hollow. Measure for Measure, Act I., Sc. II.
Thy bones are marrowless. Macbeth, Act III., Sc. IV.
A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot Of a foe o’er him, snatch’d at it, and bit The very tendon which is most acute— (That which some ancient muse or modern wit Named after thee Achilles) and quite through’t He made the teeth meet. Byron—Don Juan, Canto VIII., Verse LXXXIV.