Give me my sin again.

I wonder that you will still be talking. Nobody marks you.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

He took the bride about the neck and kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack that at the parting all the church did echo.

I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North; he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots as a breakfast, washes his hands, and says to his wife, 'Fie upon this quiet life! I want work.

One may smile, and smile, and be a villain.

My soul is in the sky.