The bird that hath been limed in a bush, with trembling wings misdoubteth every bush.
What is aught but as 'tis valued?
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought I summon up remembrance of things past, I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought.
thou art the best o' the cut-throats
I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.