O, how this mother swells up toward my heart!
Hysterica passio, down, thou climbing sorrow,
Thy element's below! Where is this daughter? (2.4.9)
We'll no more meet, no more see one another:
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;
Or rather a disease that's in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil,
A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,
In my corrupted blood. (2.4.29)
[…] I can tell why a snail has a house.
Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his
daughters, and leave his horns without a case. (1.5.7)