Love will not be spurred to what it loathes

Scratching could not make it worse, an't were such a face as yours were.

The fashion of the world is to avoid cost, and you encounter it.

You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!

I were better to be eaten to death with a rust than to be scoured to nothing with perpetual motion.

Use almost can change the stamp of nature.

RUMOUR: "Upon my tongues continual slanders ride, The which in every language I pronounce, Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.