Ay me! sad hours seem long.

For by his face straight shall you know his heart.

I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.

Give them great meals of beef and iron and steel, they will eat like wolves and fight like devils.

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses and with eglantine.

Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.

Tis in ourselves that we are thus, or thus.