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!

'Tis brief, my lord...as woman's love.

Talking isn't doing. It is a kind of good deed to say well; and yet words are not deeds.

He that is strucken blind can not forget the precious treasure of his eyesight lost.

My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.

We have seen better days.

The soul of this man is his clothes.