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.

Desire of having is the sin of covetousness.

The prize of all too precious you.

Honesty is not the best policy - merely the safest

To me, fair friend, you never can be old, For as you were when first your eye I ey'd, Such seems your beauty still.

Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble!

To be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man picked out of ten thousand.