Sir, you shall taste my Anno Domini

Crimes, like Virtues, are their own Rewards.

Hanging and marriage, you know, go by destiny.

Poetry’s a mere drug, Sir.

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

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.

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