What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.

But here's the joy: my friend and I are one, Sweet flattery!

O how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes favors! There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to, that sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, more pangs and fears than wars or women have, and when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again.

Manhood is melted into courtesies, valor into compliment, and men are only turned into tongue, and trim ones, too.

As I love the name of honour more than I fear death.

So, you are very welcome to our house. It must appear in other ways than words, Therefore, I scant this breathing courtesy.

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.