'Tis pride that pulls the country down.

O, she's warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.

Men prize the thing ungained more than it is.

By God, I cannot flatter, I do defy The tongues of soothers! but a braver place In my heart's love hath no man than yourself. Nay, task me to my word; approve me, lord.

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.

Can we outrun the heavens?

Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.