I Am Declined Into The Vale Of

Ay Me! For Aught That I Could Ever Read, Could Ever Hear By Tale Or History, The Course Of True Love Never Did Run Smooth. But, Either It Was Different In Blood,- Or Else It Stood Upon The Choice Of Friends,- Or, If There Were A Sympathy In Choice, War, Death, Or Sickness Did Lay Siege To It.

Thou Whoreson, Senseless Villain!

The Caterpillars Of The Commonwealth, Which I Have Sworn To Weed And Pluck Away.

For A Quart Of Ale Is A Dish For A King.

Plenty And Peace Breed Cowards; Hardness Ever Of Hardiness Is Mother.