“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!”

“Have you not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? Is not your voice broken, your wind short, your chin double, your wit single, and every part about you blasted with antiquity?”

“Now see that noble and most sovereign reason, Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh.”

“Though now this grained face of mine be hidIn sap-consuming winter's drizzled snow,And all the conduits of my blood froze up,Yet hath my night of life some memory,My wasting lamps some fading glimmer left,My dull deaf ears a little use to hear.”