I hold it cowardice To rest mistrustful where a noble heart Hath pawned an open hand in sign of love.

As he was valiant, I honour him. But as he was ambitious, I slew him.

Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound Upon a wheel of fire; that mine own tears Do scald like molten lead.

My liege, and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time, Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief.

He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat.

To be in anger is impiety, but who is man that is not angry?

How use doth breed a habit in a man.