Like madness, is the glory of this life.

How well he's read, to reason against reading!

It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.

If [God] send me no husband, for the which blessing I am at him upon my knees every morning and evening.

The devil is a gentleman.

Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!

If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him.