I'll have no husband, if you be not he.

I have supped full with horrors.

The poorest service is repaid with thanks.

Now, infidel, I have you on the hip!

I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!

The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.

Nor age so eat up my invention.