What early tongue so sweet saluteth me? Young son, it argues a distemper'd head So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed: Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye, And where care lodges, sleep will never lie; But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.

Where every something, being blent together turns to a wild of nothing.

You abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone.

Can we outrun the heavens?

A little water clears us of this deed.

You have witchcraft in your lips, there is more eloquence in a sugar touch of them than in the tongues of the French council; and they should sooner persuade Harry of England than a general petition of monarchs.

A peevish self-willed harlotry it is. *She’s a stubborn little brat.*