There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.

Ay, but hearken, sir; though the chameleon Love can feed on the air, I am one that am nourished by my victuals, and would fain have meat.

The gallantry of his grief did put me into a towering passion.

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

But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live.

Death lies on her like an untimely frost.

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.