But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

They are fairies; he that speaks to them shall die. I'll wink and couch; no man their works must eye.

The breaking of so great a thing should make A greater crack: the round world Should have shook lions into civil streets, And citizens to their dens.

Should the poor be flattered? No; let the candied tongue lick absurd pomp, and crook the pregnant hinges of the knee where thrift may follow fawning.

What's done is done. The joy is in the doing.

I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; so full of valor that they smote the air, for breathing in their faces, beat the ground for kissing of their feet.

For trust not him that hath once broken faith