Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral bak'd meats did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.

Come, woo me, woo me, for now I am in a holiday humor, and like enough to consent.

Every man has a bag hanging before him, in which he puts his neighbour's faults, and another behind him in which he stows his own.

In a false quarrel there is no true valor.

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.

They say best men are molded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad

Past and to come, seems best; things present, worse.