All is well ended, if the suit be won.
Thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife!
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!
Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment.
Yet do I fear thy nature; It is too full o' the milk of human kindness.
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.