Away! Thou'rt poison to my blood.

It is the purpose that makes strong the vow; But vows to every purpose must not hold.

In religion, What damned error but some sober brow Will bless it, and approve it with a text, Hiding the grossness with fair ornament?

Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?

Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.

Can we outrun the heavens?

If fortune torments me, hope contents me.