While we lie tumbling in the hay.

Therefore another prologue must tell he is not a lion

Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life.

Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?

This royal throne of kings, this sceptered isle, This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, This other Eden, demi-paradise, This fortress built by Nature for herself Against infection and the hand of war, This happy breed of men, this little world, This precious stone set in the silver sea, Which serves it in the office of a wall Or as a moat defensive to a house, Against the envy of less happier lands,--This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

What is thy sentence then but speechless death.

The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger.