I am sir Oracle, and when I ope my lips, let no dog bark.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May.

Where shall we three meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain? When the hurlyburly 's done, when the battle 's lost and won

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; so full of valor that they smote the air, for breathing in their faces, beat the ground for kissing of their feet.

When devils will the blackest sins put on They do suggest at first with heavenly shows

Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.