Winter's not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.

But what's so blessed-fair that fears no blot? Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not.

Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service

They have been at a great feast of languages, and stolen the scraps.

Let the doors be shut upon him, that he may play the fool no where but in's own house.

Slanders, sir, for the satirical rogue says here that old men have grey beards, that their faces are wrinkled, their eyes purging think amber and plum-tree gum, and that they have a plentiful lack of wit, together with most weak hams.

Death is a fearful thing.