Many strokes, though with a little axe, hew down and fell the hardest-timber'd oak.

Hang there like fruit, my soul, Till the tree die!

There is no love-broker in the world can more prevail in man's commendation with woman than report of valor.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*

If I had my mouth, I would bite; if I had my liberty, I would do my liking. In the meantime, let me be that I am, and seek not toalter me.

And be these juggling friends no more believ'd, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to our hope.

Hide not thy poison with such sugar'd words