There is an old poor man,. . . . Oppress'd with two weak evils, age and hunger.

Hold, or cut bowstrings.

Forget, forgive; conclude, and be agreed.

Fear and niceness, the handmaids of all women, or more truly, woman its pretty self.

This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.

I have a kind soul that would give you thanks. And knows not how to do it but with tears.

The king hath note of all that they intend, by interception which they dream not of.