“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!”

“All dark and comfortless.”

“O wretched state! o bosom black as death!”

“Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.”