The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.

So our virtues lie in the interpretation of the time

There is not one wise man in twenty that will praise himself.

She told her, while she kept it, 'Twould make her amiable and subdue my father Entirely to her love, but if she lost it Or made a gift of it, my father's eye Should hold her loathed and his spirits should hunt After new fancies.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

As a decrepit father takes delight To see his active child do deeds of youth, So I, made lame by fortune's dearest spite, Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth.

He hath a heart as sound as a bell, and his tongue is the clapper; for what his heart thinks his tongue speaks.