When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.

I am joined with no foot land-rakers, no long-staff, sixpenny strikers, none of these mad, mustachio purple-hued maltworms, but with nobility and tranquillity.

Ay me! sad hours seem long.

O world, world! thus is the poor agent despised. O traitors and bawds, how earnestly are you set a-work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavor be so loved, and the performance so loathed?

Women are as roses, whose fair flower, being once displayed, doth fall that very hour.

He took the bride about the neck and kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack that at the parting all the church did echo.

Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.