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A quarrel ho! already! What's the matter? About a hoop of gold, a paltry ring That she did give me, whose posy was For all the world like cutler's poetry Upon a knife--'Love me, and leave me not.'

You have a choice between the natural stability of gold and the honesty and intelligence of the members of government. And with all due respect for those gentlemen, I advise you, as long as the capitalist system lasts, vote for gold.

There is thy gold; worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murther in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell:.

But that your royal pleasure must be done, This act is as an ancient tale new told, And in the last repeating troublesome, Being urged at a time unreasonable.

Foul whisp'rings are abroad.

. . . if my gossip Report be an honest woman of her word. I would she were as lying a gossip in that as ever knapped ginger or made her neighbors believe she wept for the death of a third husband.

Here comes one with a paper: God give him grace to groan!

O, then, what graces in my love do dwell That he hath turned a heaven unto a hell!

Hail to thee, lady! and the grace of heaven, Before, behind thee, and on every hand, Enwheel thee round!

Full many a lady I have eyed with best regard, and many a time Th' harmony of their tongues hath into bondage Brought my too diligent ear; for several virtues Have I liked several women; never any With so full soul but some defect in her Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, And put it to the foil.

He does it with a better grace, but I do it more natural.

Now the good gods forbid That our renowned Rome, whose gratitude Towards her deserved children is enrolled In Jove's own book, like an unnatural dam Should now eat up her own!

Let but the commons hear this testament, Which I do not mean to read, And they would go and kiss dead Caesar's wounds And dip their napkins in his sacred blood; Yea, beg a hair of him for memory, And dying, mention it within their wills, Bequeathing it as a rich legacy Upon their issue.

If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine, Thou robb'st me of a moiety.

This grief is crowned with consolation, you old smock brings forth a new petticoat, and indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.

O, grief hath changed me since you saw me last, And careful hours, with Time's deformed hand, Have written strange defeatures in my face.

Gard'ner, for telling me these news of woe, Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow.

'Ay,' quoth my uncle Gloucester, 'Small herbs have grace, great weeds do grow apace.' And since, methinks, I would not grow so fast, Because sweet flow'rs are slow and weeds make haste.

O, my lord, You said that idle weeds are fast in growth: The prince my brother hath outgrown me far.

No, truly, 'tis more than manners will; And I have heard it said, unbidden guests Are often welcomest when they are gone.