Cursed be the hand that made these fatal holes.
When the age is in, the wit is out
Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks, Shall win my love.
Captain of our fairy band, Helena is here at hand, And the youth, mistook by me, Pleading for a lover's fee. Shall we their fond pageant see? Lord, what fools these mortals be!
Away, you mouldy rogue, away!
Indeed, sir, he that sleeps feels not the toothache; but a man that were to sleep your sleep, and a hangman to help him to bed, I think he would change places with his officer; for look you, sir, you know not which way you shall go.