I hate all that don’t love me, and slight all that do

[T]hose who know the least, obey the best.

Crimes, like Virtues, are their own Rewards.

Hanging and marriage, you know, go by destiny.

Cos. Pray now, what may be that same bed of honour? Kite. Oh, a mighty large bed! bigger by half than the great bed at Ware: ten thousand people may lie in it together, and never feel one another.

Poetry’s a mere drug, Sir.

Sir, you shall taste my Anno Domini.