Tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers.
Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find.
Do not plunge thyself too far in anger.
O, what a world of vile ill-favored faults, looks handsome in three hundred pounds a year!
When devils will the blackest sins put on They do suggest at first with heavenly shows
O call not me to justify the wrong, That thy unkindness lays upon my heart, Wound me not with thine eye but with thy tongue, Use power with power, and slay me not by art.