One pain is lessened by another's anguish.

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent.

Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame.

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.

'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.

Last scene of all that ends this strange, eventful history, is second childishness and mere oblivion. I am sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

Report of fashions in proud Italy Whose manners still our tardy-apish nation Limps after in base imitation