Because it is a customary cross, As die to love as thoughts, and dreams, and sighs, Wishes, and tears, poor fancy's followers.

Policy sits above conscience.

Wisely, I say, I am a bachelor.

This rudeness is a sauce to his good wit, Which gives men stomach to digest his words With better appetite.

And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.

My friends were poor, but honest, so's my love.

If our virtues did not go forth of us, it were all alike as if we had them not.