For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

A light wife doth make a heavy husband.

A king of infinite space

I will not trust you, I, Nor longer stay in your curst company. Your hands than mine are quicker for a fray, My legs are longer though, to run away.

Now get you to my lady's chamber, and tell her, let her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must come; make her laugh at that.

It is as easy to count atomies as to resolve the propositions of a lover.

Ring the alarum-bell! Blow, wind! come, wrack! At least we'll die with harness on our back.