And too soon Marred are those so early Made.

Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.

Should the poor be flattered? No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue.

Time's the king of men; he's both their parent, and he is their grave, and gives them what he will, not what they crave.

You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings and soar with them above a common bound.

No beast so fierce but knows some touch of pity. But I know none, and therefore am no beast.