My love is as a fever, longing still.
I am in blood Stepp'd in so far, that, should I wade no more, Returning were as tedious as go o'er.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!
Good company, good wine, good welcome, can make good people.
Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.
I hate ingratitude more in a man than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, or any taint of vice whose strong corruption inhabits our frail blood".