“Get thee to a nunnery.”

“Wolves and bears, they say, casting their savagery aside, have done like offices of pity.”

“What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.”

“I am not bound to please thee with my answer.”

“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!”

“Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.”

“The fear's as bad as falling.”

“Some of your griefs you have cured, And the sharpest you still have survived, But what torments of grief you've endured From evils that never arrived.”