Your face is a book, where men may read strange matters.

Thou whoreson, senseless villain!

O heaven! that one might read the book of fate, and see the revolution of the times.

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; And thus the native hue of resolution Is slicked o'er with the pale cast of thought

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

It provokes the desire but it takes away the performance. Therefore much drink may be said to be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him and it mars him; it sets him on and it takes him off.

Well, God's above all; and there be souls must be saved, and there be souls must not be saved.