Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.

O, here Will I set up my everlasting rest And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars From the world-wearied flesh

These cardinals trifle with me; I abhor; This dilatory sloth and tricks of Rome.

Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes every one to the world but I, and I am sunburnt; I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband!

On Rumor's tongue continual slanders ride.

To persist in doing wrong extenuates not the wrong, but makes it much more heavy.

Mine eyes smell onions: I shall weep anon.