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And if his name be George, I’ll call him Peter;
For new-made honour doth forget men’s names. (1.1.186)

To deliver,
Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age’s tooth. (1.1.212)

For courage mounteth with occasion. (2.1.82)

I would that I were low laid in my grave:
I am not worth this coil that ’s made for me. (2.1.169)

Saint George, that swinged the dragon and e’er since
Sits on his horse back at mine hostess’ door. (2.1.288)

That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling Commodity,
Commodity, the bias of the world. (2.1.573)

He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such as she;
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him. (2.1.447)

Talks as familiarly of roaring lions
As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs! (2.1.470)

Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail,
And say there is no sin, but to be rich;
And, being rich, my virtue then shall be,
To say there is no vice, but beggary. (2.1.592)

I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes his owner stoop. (3.1.71)

Here I and sorrows sit;
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it. (3.1.75)

Old Time the clock-setter, that bald sexton, Time. (3.1.324)

Bell, book, and candle shall not drive me back,
When gold and silver becks me to come on. (3.3.12)

Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:
Then have I reason to be fond of grief. (3.4.92)

Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man. (3.4.108)

When Fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatening eye. (3.4.122)

Heat me these irons hot. (4.1.1)

Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes that never did nor never shall
So much as frown on you? (4.1.56)

To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful and ridiculous excess. (4.2.7)

The spirit of the time shall teach me speed. (4.2.176)

We cannot hold mortality’s strong hand. (4.2.82)

How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds
Makes ill deeds done! (4.2.219)

Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones! (4.3.10)

Whate’er you think, good words, I think, were best. (4.3.28)

Am I Rome’s slave? (5.2.97)

Here walk I in the black brow of night
To find you out. (5.6.17)

’T is strange that death should sing.
I am the cygnet to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death,
And from the organ-pipe of frailty sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest. (5.7.22)

Now my soul hath elbow-room. (5.7.28)

There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment, and against this fire
Do I shrink up. (5.7.33)

What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,
When this was now a king and now is clay? (5.7.68)

This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them: nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true. (5.7.112)

Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them. Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true. (5.7.122)