Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent.

Madam, you have bereft me of all words, Only my blood speaks to you in my veins.

The blood of youth burns not with such excess as gravity's revolt to wantonness.

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Lechery, lechery; still, wars and lechery: nothing else holds fashion.

God defend the right.

I'll look to like; if looking, liking move.