I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.

Give me my sin again.

Just death, kind umpire of men's miseries.

This most excellent canopy, the air, look you, this brave o-erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire.

You lie, in faith; for you are call'd plain Kate, And bonny Kate and sometimes Kate the curst; But Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate, For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate, Take this of me, Kate of my consolation; Hearing thy mildness praised in every town, Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded, Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs, Myself am moved to woo thee for my wife.

My affection hath an unknown bottom, like the Bay of Portugal.

I charge thee, hence, and do not haunt me thus.