To you your father should be as a god.

Hell is empty and all the devils are here.

Who knows himself a braggart, Let him fear this; for it will come to pass That every braggart will be found an ass.

Say she rail; why, I'll tell her plain She sings as sweetly as a nightingale. Say that she frown; I'll say she looks as clear As morning roses newly wash'd with dew. Say she be mute and will not speak a word; Then I'll commend her volubility, and say she uttereth piercing eloquence.

What's done is done. The joy is in the doing.

Conscience is a thousand swords.

Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram; The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun, and with him rise weeping.