Every man has business and desire, Such as it is.

What's gone, and what's past help, Should be past grief.

Rich honesty dwells like a miser, Sir, in a poor house; as your pearl in your foul oyster.

A little more than kin, and less than kind.

Is love a tender thing? It is too rough, too rude, too boisterous, and it pricks like thorn.

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!

Adieu, adieu, adieu! remember me.