Bid the dishonest man mend himself; if he mend, he is no longer dishonest.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

For this, be sure, tonight thou shalt have cramps, Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up. Urchins Shall forth at vast of night that they may work All exercise on thee. Thou shalt be pinched As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging Than bees that made 'em.

Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing.

Were I the Moor I would not be Iago. In following him I follow but myself; Heaven is my judge, not I for love and duty, But seeming so for my peculiar end. For when my outward action doth demonstrate The native act and figure of my heart In compliment extern, ’tis not long after But I will wear my heart upon my sleeve For daws to peck at. I am not what I am

I have very poor and unhappy brains for drinking: I could well wish courtesy would invent some other custom of entertainment.

Memory, the warder of the brain.