While we lie tumbling in the hay.
'Sblood, you starveling, you elf-skin, you dried neat's tongue, you bull's pizzle, you stock-fish! O for breath to utter what is like thee! you tailor's-yard, you sheath, you bowcase; you vile standing-tuck!
Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear.
Many a true word hath been spoken in jest.
You take my life when you do take the means whereby I live
Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.