Slander, whose whisper over the world's diameter, as level as the cannon to its blank, transports its poisoned shot.

Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.

It is not night when I do see your face.

Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.

Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead, excessive grief the enemy to the living.

The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept.

Thy wish was father, Harry, to that thought.