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

If after every tempest come such calms, May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!

Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows.

Never durst poet touch a pen to write Until his ink were temper'd with Love's sighs.

I kissed thee ere I killed thee. No way but this, Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.

Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage.

When most I wink, then do my eyes best see