Thou call'st me dog before thou hadst a cause, But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

Death rock me asleep.

Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit, And, in strong proff of chastity well armed, From Love's weak childish bow she lives uncharmed. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. O, she is rich in beauty; only poor That, when she dies, with dies her store. Act 1,Scene 1, lines 180-197

To mourn a mischief that is past and gone Is the next way to draw new mischief on.

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

A table full of welcome makes scarce one dainty dish.

There is a devilish mercy in the judge, if you'll implore it, that will free your life, but fetter you till death.