'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.
Perseverance, my dear Lord. Keeps honour bright.
The sudden hand of Death close up mine eye!
I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking.
Take no repulse, whatever she doth say; For 'get you gone,' she doth not mean 'away.' Flatter and praise, commend, extol their graces; Though ne'er so black, say they have angels' faces
The most peerless piece of earth, I think, that e' er the sun shone bright on.