Ornament is but the guiled shore to a most dangerous sea.
We wound our modesty and make foul the clearness of our deservings, when of ourselves we publish them.
Faint heart never won fair maid.
Fight to the last gasp.
Proper deformity shows not in the fiend So horrid as in woman.
Sometimes we are devils to ourselves When we will tempt the frailty of our powers, Presuming on their changeful potency.