Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!
I will make a Star-chamber matter of it.
Here is a rural fellow that will not be denied your Highness' presence: he brings you figs.
Sick in the world's regard, wretched and low.
When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through fog and filthy air.