A woman's fitness comes by fits.
And thus I clothe my naked villainy With odd old ends stol'n out of holy writ; And seem a saint, when most I play the devil.
I can hardly forbear hurling things at him.
A rarer spirit never Did steer humanity; but you gods will give us Some faults to make us men.
Silence is the perfect herald of joy.
Nothing comes amiss, so money comes withal.