Ere yet the salt of most unrighteous tears Had left the flushing of her gallèd eyes, She married. O, most wicked speed, to post With such dexterity to incestuous sheets!

Now 'tis spring, and weeds are shallow-rooted; Suffer them now and they'll o'ergrow the garden.

King Henry: But what a point, my lord, your falcon made, And what a pitch she flew above the rest! To see how God in all his creatures works! Yea, man and birds are fain of climbing high. Suffolk: No marvel, an it like your majesty, My lord protectors hawks do tower so well; They know their masters loves to be aloft, And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch. Gloucester: My lord, 'tis but a base ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.

Some kinds of baseness are nobly undergone.

Love runs away from those chasing her, and those who run away, she throws herself on his neck.

Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!