Desire of having is the sin of covetousness.

Foul cankering rust the hidden treasure frets, but gold that's put to use more gold begets.

I could a tale unfold whose lightest word Would harrow up thy soul, freeze thy young blood, Make thy two eyes like stars start from their spheres, Thy knotted and combined locks to part, And each particular hair to stand on end Like quills upon the fretful porpentine. But this eternal blazon must not be To ears of flesh and blood. List, list, O list!

How use doth breed a habit in a man.

I am ill at these numbers.

Virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin; and sin that amends is but patched with virtue.

Let me be boiled to death with melancholy.