For as a surfeit of the sweetest things The deepest loathing to the stomach brings, Or as tie heresies that men do leave Are hated most of those they did deceive, So thou, my surfeit and my heresy, Of all be hated, but the most of me!

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.

I cannot do it without comp[u]ters.

Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment.

A little water clears us of this deed.

It is not vain glory for a man and his glass to confer in his own chamber.

In right and service to their noble country.