Tis in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners.

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor

No visor does become black villainy so well as soft and tender flattery.

Wishers were ever fools.

I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.

Lord, I could not endure a husband with a beard on his face! I had rather lie in the woolen.

Aand in the end, Having my freedom, boast of nothing else But that I was a journeyman to grief?