So will I turn her virtue into pitch, And out of her own goodness make the net That shall enmesh them all.

Who wooed in haste, and means to wed at leisure.

Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

There is no sure foundation set on blood, No certain life achieved by others' death.

As many arrows, loosed several ways, come to one mark...so many a thousand actions, once afoot, end in one purpose.

He kills her in her own humor.

With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come.