Pride went before, ambition follows him.

These words are razors to my wounded heart.

While thou livest keep a good tongue in thy head.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

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

By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me.

Yet mark'd I where the bolt of Cupid fell: It fell upon a little western flower, Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, And maidens call it love-in-idleness.