Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt.

The venom clamours of a jealous woman poison more deadly than a mad dog's tooth.

We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.

But yet, I say, if imputation and strong circumstances, which lead directly to the door of truth, will give you satisfaction, you may have it.

O, how I faint when I of you do write, Knowing a better spirit doth use your name, And in the praise thereof spends all his might To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.

There's small choice in rotten apples.

But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom, More honored in the breach than the observance.