If thou would'st have me sing and play As once I play'd and sung, First take this time-worn lute away, And bring one freshly strung.
English physicians kill you, the French let you die.
And the tear that we shed, though in secret it rolls, Shall long keep his memory green in our souls.
The vices of some men are magnificent.
I never knew an enemy to puns who was not an ill-natured man.
Do not fold, spindle or mutilate.