And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.

Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!

Did he so often lodge in open field, In winter's cold and summer's parching heat, To conquer France, his true inheritance?

Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.

She's beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is a woman, therefore to be won.

Our wills and fates do so contrary run, That our devices still are overthrown; Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own.

Most dangerous is that temptation that doth goad us on to sin in loving virtue.