Gloucester, we have done deeds of charity, made peace of enmity, fair love of hate, between these swelling wrong-incensed peers.
With mirth in funeral and with dirge in marriage.
The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.
To you your father should be as a god.
This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath, May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet
Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.