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

Lay not that flattering unction to your soul, That not your trespass but my madness speaks.

Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

So far be distant; and good night, sweet friend: thy love ne'er alter, till they sweet life end

Our fancies are more giddy and unfirm, more longing, wavering, sooner lost and won, than women's are.

For a quart of ale is a dish for a king.

So may the outward shows be least themselves: The world is still deceived with ornament. In law, what plea so tainted and corrupt, But, being seasoned with a gracious voice, Obscures the show of evil? In religion, What damned error, but some sober brow Will bless it and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament? There is no vice so simple but assumes Some mark of virtue on his outward parts.