I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, Straining upon the start. The game's afoot; Follow your spirit: and upon this charge, Cry — God for Harry! England and Saint George!

And teach me how To name the bigger light, and how the less, That burn by day and night.

That which in mean men we entitle patience is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.

I had rather have a fool to make me merry than experience to make me sad and to travel for it too!

O, how wretched is that poor man that hangs on princes' favors.

Having my freedom, boast of nothing else.

A very honest woman but something given to lie