I wish my horse had the speed of your tongue.
Death makes no conquest of this conqueror: For now he lives in fame, though not in life.
Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more, men were deceivers ever
The time is out of joint : O cursed spite, that ever I was born to set it right!
Virtuous and fair, royal and gracious.
Away, you cut-purse rascal! you filthy bung, away! By this wine, I'll thrust my knife in your mouldy chaps, an you play the saucy cuttle with me. Away, you bottle-ale rascal! you basket-hilt stale juggler, you!