I'll note you in my book of memory.
Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly.
I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so.
A college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humor. Dost thou think I care for a satire or an epigram?
With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. And let my liver rather heat with wine, than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.