Let him smell his way to Dover!

Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!

What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.

She will die if you love her not, And she will die ere she might make her love known

And do as adversaries do in law, strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends.

What is the city but the people?

God mark thee to His grace! Thou was the prettiest babe that e'er I nursed. And might I live to see thee married once, I have my wish.