Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!

The jury passing on the prisoner's life may in the sworn twelve have a thief or two guiltier than him they try.

Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.

Wait for the season when to cast good counsels upon subsiding passion.

We all are men, in our own natures frail, and capable of our flesh; few are angels.

He that dies pays all debts.

Women's weapons, water-drops.