How much salt water thrown away in waste/ To season love, that of it doth not taste.

For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.

I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; so full of valor that they smote the air, for breathing in their faces, beat the ground for kissing of their feet.

If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me.

Let each man do his best.

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.

Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words