She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared
There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word.
I see a woman may be made a fool, If she had not a spirit to resist.
Courage and comfort, all shall yet go well
It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury; signifying nothing.