Sweet love! Sweet lines! Sweet life! Here is her hand, the agent of her heart; Here is her oath for love, her honour's pawn

Death-counterfeiting sleep.

Nothing in his life became him like leaving it.

They whose guilt within their bosom lies, imagine every eye beholds their blame.

In nature there's no blemish but the mind. None can be called deformed but the unkind.

He that filches from me my good name robs me of that which enriches him and makes me poor indeed.

I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.