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.

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies

Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.

So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

You shall more command with years than with your weapons.

Your praises will become your wages.

Oh, injurious love, that respites me a life, whose very comfort is still a dying horror