A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with light weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain.

I will make a Star-chamber matter of it.

No, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change.

They have a plentiful lack of wit.

That in the captains but a choleric word Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

When you do dance, I wish you a wave o' the sea, that you might ever do nothing but that.

If you spend word for word with me, I shall make your wit bankrupt.