Pray you now, forget and forgive.

Sweet flowers are slow and weeds make haste.

Oh! that you could turn your eyes towards the napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves.

What have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fishlike smell; a kind of not of the newest poor-John. A strange fish!

And by that destiny to perform an act Whereof what's past is prologue, what to come In yours and my discharge.

Virtue's office never breaks men's troth.

God's will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle!