There is no praise to bear the sort that you put in your pocket.
He must have killed a lot of men to have made so much money.
A husband is a plaster that cures all the ills of girlhood.
Then worms shall try That long preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust. The grave's a fine and private place But none, I think, do there embrace.
There is no secret of the heart which our actions do not disclose.
That must be fine, for I don't understand a word.