Thar't a foole, thar't a foole, bee rulde by mine host, shew thy self a brave man, of the true seede of Troy, a gallant Agamemnon; tha'st a shrew to thy wife, if shee crosse thy brave humors, kicke thy heele at her huckle bone.

The age of letting goe is past, Madam; we must not now let goe, but strike up mens heeles, and take am as they fall.

Hould thou his heeles, ile bear his wounded head: Would he did live, so I myself were dead!

One woe doth tread vpon anothers heele, So fast they'l follow: your Sister's drown'd Laertes.