Rumour is a pipe Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures And of so easy and so plain a stop That the blunt monster with uncounted heads, The still-discordant wavering multitude, Can play upon it.

The worm is not to be trusted.

O heaven! were man, But constant, he were perfect.

My language! heavens!I am the best of them that speak this speech. Were I but where 'tis spoken.

The devil shall have his bargain; for he was never yet a breaker of proverbs--he will give the devil his due.

Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit, And, in strong proff of chastity well armed, From Love's weak childish bow she lives uncharmed. She will not stay the siege of loving terms, Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes, Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold. O, she is rich in beauty; only poor That, when she dies, with dies her store. Act 1,Scene 1, lines 180-197

Love surfeits not, Lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, Lust full of forged lies