Foul whisperings are abroad

Give me mine angle, we'll to th' river: there, My music playing far off, I will betray Tawny-finned fishes. My bended hook shall pierce Their slimy jaws; and as I draw them up, I'll think them every one an Antony, And say, 'Ah, ha! are caught!'

The rest, is silence.

Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds makes ill deeds done!

What to ourselves in passion we propose, The passion ending, doth the purpose lose.

The horn, the horn, the lusty horn Is not a thing to laugh to scorn.