They have a plentiful lack of wit.

What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

Don't judge a man's conscience by looking at his face cause he may have a bad heart.

The first thing we do, let's kill all the lawyers.

Thy words, I grant are bigger, for I wear not, my dagger in my mouth.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say, 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'