With that he gave his able horse the head, and bending forward struck his arméd heels against the panting sides of his poor jade up to the rowel head; and starting so he seemed in running to devour the way, staying no longer question.
See what a ready tongue suspicion hath!
Let heaven kiss earth! Now let not Nature's hand keep the wild flood confined! Let order die! And let this world no longer be a stage to feed contention in a lingering act; but let one spirit of the first-born Cain reign in all bosoms, that, each heart being set on bloody courses, the rude scene may end, and darkness be the burier of the dead!
His forward spirit would lift him where most trade of danger ranged.
I can get no remedy against this consumption of the purse; borrowing only lingers and lingers it out, but the disease is incurable.
How now, whose mare's dead?
Divorce not wisdom from your honour.
You draw my spirits from me with new lamenting ancient oversights.
'Tis with my mind as with the tide swelled up unto his height, that makes a still-stand, running neither way.
When wilt thou leave fighting a-days, and foining a-nights, and begin to patch up thine old body for heaven?
His wit's as thick as Tewkesbury mustard; there's no more conceit in him than is in a mallet.
I feel me much to blame, so idly to profane the precious time, when tempest of commotion doth begin to melt and drop upon our bare unarmed heads.
You are too shallow to sound the bottom of the after-times.
There is a history in all men's lives figuring the nature of the times deceased; the which observed, a man may prophesy, with a near aim, of the main chance of things as yet come to life, who in their seeds and weak beginnings lie intreasured.
He concludes in hearty prayers that your attempts may overlive the hazard and fearful meeting of their opposite.
Unto your grace do I in chief address the substance of my speech.
For your part, it not appears to me that you should have an inch of any ground to build a grief on.
Thou art a summer bird, which ever in the haunch of winter sings the lifting up of day.
I do arm myself to welcome the condition of the time, which cannot look more hideously upon me than I have drawn it in my fantasy.
Be it in your charge to see performed the tenor of my word.
Quoit him down like a shove-groat shilling.
Give even way unto my rough affairs.
We have heard the chimes at midnight, Master Shallow.
O polish'd perturbation! Golden care! That keep'st the ports of slumber open wide to many a watchful night!