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Стр. 149 - Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on ? how then ? Can honour set to a leg ? No. Or an arm ? No. Or take away the grief of a wound ? No. Honour hath no skill in surgery then ? No. What is honour ? A word. What is in that word, honour ? What is that honour ? Air. A trim reckoning ! — Who hath it ? He that died o
Стр. 150 - Wednesday. Doth he feel it? No. Doth he hear it? No. Is it insensible then? Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living ? No. Why? Detraction will not suffer it :— therefore I'll none of it : Honour is a mere scutcheon, and so ends my catechism.
Стр. 8 - And I love it. I love everything that's old : old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine ; and I believe, Dorothy (taking her hand), you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife.
Стр. 61 - I'm sure I should be sorry (pretending to cry) if he left the family upon my account.
Стр. 15 - I'll leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll ! Then come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever, Our hearts and our liquors are stout, Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever.
Стр. 214 - For my part, I should think you would like to have your wife thought a woman of taste. SIR PET. Ay — there again — taste ! Zounds ! madam, you had no taste when you married me ! LADY TEAZ.
Стр. 8 - You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promise you. I'm not so old as you'd make me by more than one good year. Add twenty to twenty, and make money of that.
Стр. 492 - And he dreamed, and behold a ladder set up on the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven : and behold the angels of God ascending and descending on it...
Стр. 237 - Here's to the maiden of bashful fifteen ; Here's to the widow of fifty ; Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean ; And here's to the housewife that's thrifty. Chorus. Let the toast pass, — drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove an excuse for the glass.
Стр. 26 - From the excellence of your cup, my old friend, I suppose you have a good deal of business in this part of the country. Warm work, now and then, at elections, I suppose? Hard. No, sir, I have long given that work over. Since our betters have hit upon the expedient of electing each other, there's no business 'for us that sell ale'.

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