And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.

I love you more than word can wield the matter, Dearer than eye-sight, space and liberty

Let those that play your clowns speak no more than is set down for them.

Your gentleness shall force More than your force move us to gentleness.

For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.

A gentleman that loves to hear himself talk, will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.

Nothing can seem foul to those who win.