All pity choked with custom of fell deeds.

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

He does it with better grace, but I do it more natural.

O wonderful, wonderful, and most wonderful wonderful! And yet again wonderful, and after that, out of all hooping.

Verily, I swear, it is better to be lowly born, and range with humble livers in content, than to be perked up in a glistering grief, and wear a golden sorrow.