Faith, stay here this night; they will surely do us no harm; you saw they speak us fair, give us gold; methinks they are such a gentle nation that, but for the mountain of mad flesh that claims marriage of me, could find in my heart to stay here still and turn witch.

His neigh is like the bidding of a monarch, and his countenance enforces homage. He is indeed a horse.

Scorn, at first, makes after-love the more.

Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.

When love begins to sicken and decay it uses an enforced ceremony.

Night's candles have burned out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountaintops." Hope tinged with melancholy - like life.

Pray you now, forget and forgive.