The coward dies a thousand deaths, the valiant, only once!
This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.
The clamorous owl that nightly hoots and wonders At our quaint spirits.
Upon his royal face there is no note how dread an army hath enrounded him.
Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir.
Thy friendship makes us fresh.