This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest.

Finish, good lady; the bright day is done, And we are for the Dark.

My purpose is, indeed, a horse of that color.

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.

Thou art a very ragged Wart.

In law, what plea so tainted and corrupts, but being seasoned with a gracious voice obscures the show of evil.

Blessings of your heart, you brew good ale.