I know a place where the wild thyme blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.

I dote on his very absence.

If thou couldst, doctor, cast The water of my land, find her disease, And purge it to a sound and pristine health, I would applaud thee to the very echo, That should applaud you again.

A plague of sighing and grief! It blows a man up like a bladder.

No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.

in that small [time] most greatly lived this star of England: Fortune made his sword, By which the world's best garden he achiev'd And left it to his son imperial lord. Henry the Sixth, in infant bands crown'd King of France and England did this King succeed; Whose state so many of had the managing, That they lost France and made his England bleed.