I can express no kinder sign of love, than this kind kiss.

If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride, and hug it in mine arms.

O horror! Horror! Horror! Tongue nor heart Cannot conceive nor name thee!

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.

Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find.

Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.