It easeth some, though none it ever cured, to think their dolour others have endured.

In thee thy mother dies, our household's name, My death's revenge, thy youth, and England's fame.

All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand! Oh, oh, oh!

What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

it is not enough to speak, but to speak truee

That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

That man that hath a tongue, I say is no man, if with his tongue he cannot win a woman.