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He wears his faith but as the fashion of his hat; it ever changes with the next block.

I never saw so many shocking bad hats in my life.

I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly I know a hawk from a handsaw.

Between two hawks, which flies the higher pitch, Between two dogs, which hath the deeper mouth, Between two blades, which bears the better temper, Between two horses, which doth bear him best, Between two girls, which hath the merriest eye, I have perhaps some shallow spirit of judgment; But in these nice sharp quillets of the law, Good faith, I am no wiser than a daw.

No marvel, an it like your majesty, My Lord Protector's hawks do tower so well; They know their master loves to be aloft And bears his thoughts above his falcon's pitch.

When I bestride him, I soar, I am a hawk.

Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning lark.

May be he is not well. Infirmity doth neglect all office Whereto our health is bound.

Give a man health and a course to steer, and he'll never stop to trouble about whether he's happy or not.

Such an exploit have I in hand, Ligarius, Had you a healthful ear to hear of it.

Friends, Romans countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to bury Caesar, not to praise him.

Romans, countrymen, and lovers, hear me for my cause, and be silent, that you may hear.

Few love to hear the sins they love to act.

But ere we could arrive the point proposed, Caesar cried, 'Help me, Cassius, or I sink!'

Now, ye familiar spirits that are culled Out of the powerful legions under earth, Help me this once, that France may get the field.

A sceptre snatched with an unruly hand Must be as boisterously maintained as gained, And he that stands upon a slippery place Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up.

Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in holiday humor and like enough to consent.

If all the year were playing holidays, To sport would be as tedious as to work; And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.

Being holiday, the beggar's shop is shut.

You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary, Come hither from the furrow and be merry. Make holiday: your rye-straw hats put on, And these fresh nymphs encounter every one In country footing.