He uses his folly like a stalking-horse, and under the presentation of that he shoots his wit.

Tush! Fear not, my lord, we will not stand to prate; Talkers are no good doers: be assured We come to use our hands and not our tongues.

Speak low, if you speak love.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror

Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.

We see which way the stream of time doth run.

All is well ended if this suit be won. That you express content; which we will pay, With strife to please you, day exceeding day.