There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.
I'll speak in a monstrous little voice.
No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.
Leave us to our free election.
To saucy doubts and fears.
When he shall die, Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.