Well, God's above all; and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.
An habitation giddy and unsure Hath he that buildeth on the vulgar heart.
You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange wife and a fosset-seller.
Whose heart the accustom'd sight of death makes hard.
Go, bid the soldiers shoot.
They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.