O Helena, goddess, nymph, perfect, divine! To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne? Crystal is muddy. O, how ripe in show Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!

Give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.

Thou whoreson, senseless villain!

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

The king's name is a tower of strength.

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud; for grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop.

Love hath made thee a tame snake