What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.
Forbear to judge, for we are sinners all.
Wisely, I say, I am a bachelor.
The patient must minister to himself
Muster your wits; stand in your own defence.
And oftentimes excusing of a fault Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse, As patches set upon a little breach, Discredit more in hiding of the fault Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.