Yet but three come one more. Two of both kinds make up four. Ere she comes curst and sad. Cupid is a knavish lad. Thus to make poor females mad.

Don't trust the person who has broken faith once.

For they are yet ear-kissing arguments.

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

You must confine yourself within the modest limits of order.

My heart suspects more than mine eye can see.

My nature is subdued to what it works in, like the dyer's hand.