'Tis thought the king is dead; we will not stay. The bay trees in our country are all wither'd.

But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

Security is the chief enemy of mortals.

Constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.

Being your slave what should I do but tend, Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend; Nor services to do till you require.

There live not three good men unhanged in England; and one of them is fat and grows old.

But she makes hungry Where she most satisfies.