Do You Bite Your Thumb At Us,

Tell Me, Daughter Juliet, How Stands Your Dispositions To Be Married" It Is An Honor That I Dream Not Of

Gold Were As Good As Twenty Orators.

The Language I Have Learnt These Forty Years, My Native English, Now I Must Forgo; And Now My Tongue's Use Is To Me No More Than An Unstringed Viol Or A Harp, Or Like A Cunning Instrument Cased Up Or, Being Open, Put Into His Hands That Knows No Touch To Tune The Harmony.

Then Hate Me When Thou Wilt, If Ever, Now.

France Is A Dog-hole, And It No More Merits The Tread Of A Man's Foot.