Unless hours were cups of sack, and minutes capons, and clocks the tongues of bawds, and dials the signs of leaping-houses, and the blessed sun himself a fair hot wench in flame-colored taffeta, I see no reason why thou shouldst be so superfluous to demand the time of the day.

Have patience, and endure

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.

He is dead and gone, lady, He is dead and gone; At his head a grass-green turf, At his heels a stone.

My love's more richer than my tongue.

Use every man after his desert, and who should scape whipping?

You Jig, you amble, and you lisp.