Who's there, besides foul weather?

Did I ever call for thee to pay thy part?

By'r lady, he is a good musician.

In love the heavens themselves do guide the state;
Money buys lands, and wives are sold by fate.

Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant and live.

Stay! speak, speak! I charge thee, speak!

What a sigh is there! the heart is sorely charged.

What, art thou mad? art thou mad? is not the truth
the truth?

though I am native here
And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honour'd in the breach than the observance.

You are a fool. Tell ten—I have pos’d him. Buzz!