She speaks poniards, and every word stabs.
My dull brain was wrought with things forgotten.
Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?
I am that merry wanderer of the night.
One sin another doth provoke.
Well, heaven forgive him! and forgive us all! Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall: Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none: And some condemned for a fault alone.