Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat; Of habits devil, is angel yet in this.
Show me a mistress that is passing fair, what doth her beauty serve but as a note where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?
How ill white hairs become a fool and jester!
Why, there's a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate.
Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.
Where souls do couch on flowers we'll hand in hand.