'Tis pride that pulls the country down.

Here come the lovers, full of joy and mirth.— Joy, gentle friends! joy and fresh days of love Accompany your hearts!

O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, to drown me in thy sister’s flood of tears.

He's a soldier; and for one to say a soldier lies, is stabbing.

Let the end try the man.

And will he not come again? And will he not come again? No, no, he is dead. Go to thy deathbed. He never will come again.

But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.