But most it is presumption in us when the help of heaven we count the act of men.
The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good.
Doubt is a thief that often makes us fear to tread where we might have won.
Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.
They are sick that surfeit with too much, as they that starve with nothing.
I'll say she looks as clear as morning roses newly washed with dew.