World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.

I would give all of my fame for a pot of ale and safety.

The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet.

Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.

We few. We happy few. We band of brothers, for he today That sheds his blood with me Shall be my brother.

Cry havoc and let slip the dogs of war!