The worm is not to be trusted.
Upon thy cheek I lay this zealous kiss, as seal to the indenture of my love.
He doth nothing but talk of his horses.
Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?
Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible.
Of all the flowers, me thinks a rose is best.