Time shall unfold what plaited cunning hides: Who cover faults, at last shame them derides.
Sweetest nut hath sourest rind.
You have her father's love, Demetrius; Let me have Hermia's: do you marry him!
They that touch pitch will be defiled.
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here, And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.
And oftentimes, to win us to our harm, The instruments of darkness tell us truths, Win us with honest trifles, to betray's In deepest consequence