No reckoning made, but sent to my account with all my imperfections on my head.
It is not night when I do see your face, Therefore I think I am not in the night; Nor doth this wood lack worlds of company, For you in my respect are all the world: Then how can it be said I am alone, When all the world is here to look on me?
The rarer action is in virtue than in vengeance.
Though I am not naturally honest, I am sometimes so by chance.
Though Death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.
Honour travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast.