Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.

No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.

With these shreds They vented their complainings, which being answered And a petition granted them, a strange one, To break the heart of generosity, And make bold power look pale, they threw their caps As they would hang them on the horns o' th' moon, Shouting their emulation.

Coward dogs most spend their mouths when what they seem to threaten runs far before them.

Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!

Tis the eye of childhood that fears a painted devil.

These times of woe afford no time to woo.