His Words Are Bonds, His Oaths Are

Nay, Had I Pow'r, I Should Pour The Sweet Milk Of Concord Into Hell, Uproar The Universal Peace, Confound All Unity On Earth.

Your Date Is Better In Your Pie And Your Porridge Than In Your Cheek.

I Once Did Hold It, As Our Statists Do, A Baseness To Write Fair, And Labour'd Much How To Forget That Learning; But, Sir, Now It Did Me Yeoman's Service.

Besides, They Are Our Outward Consciences, And Preachers To Us All, Admonishing That We Should Drew Us Fairly For Our End.

You Have Witchcraft In Your Lips, There Is More Eloquence In A Sugar Touch Of Them Than In The Tongues Of The French Council; And They Should Sooner Persuade Harry Of England Than A General Petition Of Monarchs.