Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.

The clock upbraids me with the waste of time.

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

There is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman than report of valor.

The villany you teach me I shall execute; and it shall go hard but I will better the instruction.

I am afeard there are few die well that die in battle, for how can they charitably dispose of anything when blood is their argument?

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark?