O, that our fathers would applause our loves, To seal our happiness with hteir consents!

'By heaven, that thou art fair, is most infallible true, that thou art beauteous truth itself, that thou art lovely. More fairer than fair, beautiful than beauteous, truer than truth itself, have commiseration on thy heroical vassal.

Discharge my followers; let them hence away, From Richard's night to Bolingbrooke's fair day.

But jealous souls will not be answered so, They are not ever jealous for the cause, But jealous for they're jealous. 'Tis a monster Begot upon itself, born on itself.

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.

World, world, O world! But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee/ Life would not yield to age.

The miserable have no other medicine But only hope.