This bud of love by summers ripening breath May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.

Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this sun of York.

Will you have her? She is herself a dowry.

But for my own part it was Greek to me.

I was adored once too.

Hal, if I tell thee a lie, spit in my face, call me horse.

How use doth breed a habit in man!