Leave us to our free election.

I'll take thy word for faith, not ask thine oath; Who shuns not to break one will sure crack both.

I had rather be a Kitten, and cry mew, Than one of these same Meeter Ballad-mongers: I had rather heare a Brazen Candlestick turn'd, Or a dry Wheele grate on the Axle-tree, And that would set my teeth nothing an edge, Nothing so much, as mincing Poetrie.

I had rather eleven died nobly for their country than one voluptuously surfeit out of action.

'Tis not enough to help the feeble up, but to support them after.

And keep you in the rear of your affection, Out of the shot and danger of desire, The chariest maid is prodigal enough If she unmasks her beauty to the moon.

Help, master, help! here's a fish hangs in the net, like a poor man's right in the law; 'twill hardly come out.