My father's wit, and my mother's tongue, assist me!

As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?

Are you up to your destiny?

We will have rings and things and fine array

I count myself in nothing else so happy as in a soul remembering my good Friends