What's his offense? Groping for trout in a peculiar river.
God's will! my liege, would you and I alone, Without more help, could fight this royal battle!
They met so near with their lips that their breaths embraced together.
Methought I was enamour'd of an ass.
O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.
His worst fault is, he's given to prayer; he is something peevish that way.