Farewell! God knows when we shall meet again.
'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.
Ay, but to die, and go we know not where.
Methinks sometimes I have no more wit than a Christian.
Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.
Under the colour of commending him I have access my own love to prefer; But Silvia is too fair, too true, too holy, To be corrupted with my worthless gifts.