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There's something in't More than my father's skill, which was the great'st Of his profession, that his good receipt Shall for my legacy be sanctified By th' luckiest stars in heaven; and would your honor But give me leave to thy success, I'd venture The well-lost life of mine on his grace's cure By such a day and hour.

I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously; for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me.

Farewell, good Salisbury, and good luck go with thee!

As good luck would have it, comes in one Mistress Page, gives intelligence of Ford's approach, and in her invention, and Ford's wife's distraction, they conveyed me into a buck-basket.

This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers. Away; go. They say there is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance, or death.

What think you, if he were conveyed to bed, Wrapped in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers, A most delicious banquet by his bed, And brave attendants near him when he wakes, Would not the beggar then forget himself?

Like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.

Nay, master, said not I as much when I saw the porpoise, how he bounced and tumbled? They say they're half fish, half flesh. A plague on them! They ne'er come but I look to be washed.

All the world's a stage, And all the men and merely players. They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts....

Beware the ides of March.

The ides of March are come.

This guest of summer, The temple-haunting martlet, does approve By his loved mansionry that the heaven's breath Smells wooingly here. No jutty, frieze, Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle. Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed The air is delicate.

What many men desire--that 'many' may be meant By the fool multitude that choose by show, Not learning more than the fond eye doth teach, Which pries not to th' interior, but like the martlet Builds in the weather on the outward wall, Even in the force and road of casualty.

All furnished, all in arms; All plum'd like estridges that with the wind Bated like eagles having lately bathed; Glittering in golden coats like images; As full of spirit as the month of May And gorgeous as the sun at midsummer; Wanton as youthful goats, wild as young bulls.

No doubt they rose up early to observe The rite of May; and, hearing our intent, Came here in grace of our solemnity.

There's her cousin, an she were not possessed with a fury, exceeds her as much in beauty as the first of May doth the last of December.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date.

More matter for a May morning.

Who worse than a physician Would this report become? But I consider By med'cine life may be prolonged, yet death Will seize the doctor too. How ended she?

I bought an unction of a mountebank, So mortal that, but dip a knife in it, Where it draws blood so cataplasm so rare, Collected from all simples that have virtue Under the moon, can save the thing from death That is but scratched withal. I'll touch my point With this contagion, that, if I gall him slightly, It may be death.