Nothing routs us but the villainy of our fears.

Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.

My chastity's the jewel of our house, bequeathed down from many ancestors.

Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.

I will be brief. Your noble son is mad.

Now the melancholy God protect thee, and the tailor make thy garments of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is opal.

All offences come from the heart.