Every subject's duty is the king's; but every subject's soul is his own.
That's a perilous shot out of an elder-gun.
Who with a body filled and vacant mind
Gets him to rest, crammed with distressful bread.
Winding up days with toil and nights with sleep.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words,--
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,--
Be in their flowing cups freshly remembered.
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
There is a river in Macedon; and there is also moreover a river at Monmouth;... and there is salmons in both.
An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England!
There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things.
By this leek, I will most horribly revenge: I eat and eat, I swear.
All hell shall stir for this.
If he be not fellow with the best king, thou shalt find the best king of good fellows.
Home-keeping youth have ever homely wits.
I have no other but a woman's reason:
I think him so, because I think him so.
O, how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day!
And if it please you, so; if not, why, so.
O jest unseen, inscrutable, invisible,
As a nose on a man's face, or a weathercock on a steeple.
She is mine own,
And I as rich in having such a jewel
As twenty seas, if all their sand were pearl,
The water nectar, and the rocks pure gold.
He makes sweet music with th' enamell'd stones,
Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
He overtaketh in his pilgrimage.
That man that hath a tongue, I say, is no man,
If with his tongue he cannot win a woman.
Except I be by Sylvia in the night,
There is no music in the nightingale.
A man I am, cross'd with adversity.
Is she not passing fair?