The jury passing on the prisoner's life may in the sworn twelve have a thief or two guiltier than him they try.

A very scurvy fellow.

'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!

The devil shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs--he will give the devil his due.

To show our simple skill, That is the true beginning of our end.

Hold, or cut bowstrings.

She's gone. I am abused, and my relief must be to loathe her.