O happy dagger!This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.

O true apothecary!Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.

Let there be gall enough in thy ink; though thou write with a goose-pen, no matter.

Let come what will, I mean to bear it out, And either live with glorious victorie, Or die with fame renown'd for chivalrie: He is not worthy of the honey-comb, That shuns the hives because the bees have stings

Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them.

Cudgel thy brains no more about it.