There is nothing so confining as the prisons of our own perceptions.
Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death.
In the modesty of fearful duty, I read as much as from the rattling tongue of saucy and audacious eloquence.
I kissed thee ere I killed thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.
Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
Give to a gracious message An host of tongues, but let ill tidings tell Themselves when they be felt.