You would answer very well to a whipping, if you were but bound to’t.
If ever thou beest bound in thy scarf and beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage.
Why, these balls bound; there’s noise in it.
Come, pilgrim, I will bring you Where you shall host: of enjoin’d penitents There’s four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound, Already at my house.
Whither are bound?
He wears his honour in a box unseen That hugs his kicksy-wicksy here at home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms, Which should sustain the bound and high curvet Of Mars’s fiery steed.
I with a troop of Florentines will suddenly surprise him; such I will have whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy; we will bind and hoodwink him so that he shall suppose no other but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries when we bring him to our own tents.
On his bed of death Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one, Which, as the dearest issue of his practice, And of his old experience the only darling, He bade me store up as a triple eye, Safer than mine own two, more dear: I have so: And, hearing your high majesty is touch’d With that malignant cause wherein the honour Of my dear father’s gift stands chief in power, I come to tender it, and my appliance, With all bound humbleness.