Thrice is he arm'd that hath his quarrel just, And he but naked, though lock'd up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

The teeming Autumn big with rich increase, bearing the wanton burden of the prime like widowed wombs after their lords decease.

I had rather be a kitten and cry mew Than one of these same metre ballet-mongers.

Most dear actors, eat no onions nor garlic, for we are to utter sweet breath.

Set your heart at rest. The fairyland buys not the child of me.

All things are ready, if our mind be so.

true apothecary thy drugs art quick