And thence from Athens turn away our eyes To seek new friends and stranger companies.

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!

Look, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east! Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain-tops.

What is more miserable than discontent?

What I have done is yours; what I have to do is yours; being part in all I have, devoted yours.

Speak the speech, I pray you, as I pronounc'd it to you, trippingly on the tongue.

You cram these words into mine ears against The stomach of my sense.