How wayward is this foolish love that, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse and presently, all humble, kiss the rod.

There is thy gold, worse poison to men's souls, Doing more murder in this loathsome world, Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell.

And how his audit stands who knows, save Heaven?

Each substance of a grief has twenty shadows.

An arrant traitor as any is in the universal world, or in France, or in England.

God has given you one face, and you make yourself another.

Fie, thou dishonest Satan! I call thee by the most modest terms; for I am one of those gentle ones that will use the devil himself with courtesy: sayest thou that house is dark?