My father's wit, and my mother's tongue, assist me!
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .
Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.
Come not between the dragon and his wrath.
Right joyous are we to behold your face, Most worthy brother England; fairly met!
For you and I are past our dancing days.