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

But yet I'll make assurance double sure, and take a bond of fate: thou shalt not live.

When that churl Death my bones with dust shall cover.

Bring me a constant woman to her husband, One that ne'er dream'd a joy beyond his pleasure, And to that woman, when she has done most, Yet will I add an honour-a great patience.

There is little choice in a barrel of rotten apples.

There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.

The moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun.